Golden Stairs: A Dream

I do not often remember my dreams, not unless I am woken suddenly from a deep sleep, like last night, when some Victoria Day revelry startled me from my dream and left me drifting in its curious emotion for several minutes.  The dream has been clinging to me all day, vivid and intangible as only dreams are, so I write this as a kind of exorcism.  Feel free to psychoanalyse as you please.

I am descending through what must be water, but it is thicker than water, and it is divided into layers, greens and blues and greys laid atop one another. I am breathing this water, but it is thick in my lungs. I am not struggling to breath, but my breathing is full and heavy.

As I approach the bottom, I am surrounded suddenly by a forest of seaweed, leafy, with long trailing fronds.  There is no animal life.  I am entirely alone among the vine-like plants.  They are grasping at me, not to entangle me, but to caress me, though their touch is clumsy, and I am moving slowly through them.  I am feeling the sand on my feet, and it is clean.  There is no muck or debris, just sand under my feet and leaves clinging to my body.

Then through the weed, a flight of golden stairs appears.  Each step is broader than I can see in each direction, and each is tall enough that I am using my hands to climb them.  As I climb, though, they become narrower and shorter, so that I now see their edges on either side, and I am climbing them with my feet only, as they taper to a pyramid above me.

As soon as I see the peak of the pyramid, I am standing on it, and there is a golden casket, the size of a coffin, perfectly rectangular.  I open it, and I am suddenly full of the weight of the lid, as I slide it to the side.

Inside are two dolls.  Their faces and hands are unpainted clay, and their cloths are tailored from plain burlap.  When I pick them up, they begin moving.  Their eyes open and their mouths move, as though they are speaking, but the thickness of the water keeps me from hearing them.  Their small hands grasp my fingers, and they cling to me, almost in desperation, but I cannot understand what it is that they want from me.

Then I wake.

  1. Andrew Hill said:

    sounds to me like you’ve been smoking peyote.

  2. Katerina said:

    mortality, or women.
    fits all descriptions, really.

  3. Andrew,

    I have no need for hallucinogens. I have children.


    Why is it that every dream means death or sex or both? I am still looking for the analyst who will tell me that my dreams reveal an anxiety that the local hooligans will tear down my beanpoles.

  4. Katerina said:

    I was being intentionally simplistic, you know. 🙂

    I think your analysis sounds good. But I am kind of biased; I think only the dreamer can accurately interpret the dream, because only he remembers the specific emotions of the events and the possible symbolism and imagery and how it applies to his past experiences or current thoughts.

  5. Andrew Hill said:

    everyone needs hallucinogens! lets be honest! honestly especially with the end of the dream i think it has something to do with your kids. i think its a very positive thing. you are with your kids in a very safe (no other animals around) environment. Comfortable environment (warm thick water sea weeds holding you). and the two dolls are seemingly happy about their lives and happy to see you. so ya i think its good

  6. TC said:

    well, it’s a life..

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