I've been having very funky dreams again lately. I love dreaming. Dreams are my in-sleep-entertainment. I think they're cool. Funky. And - maybe - strange.
Yes, I am a dreamer.
Deam Log: April 4, 2003
I am riding a horse through the narrow cobble-stoned alleyways of a medieval town. High walls of houses, narrow streets, little light. The path is steep. I am carefully guiding my steed down downwards. Now I notice that my horse is white. And invisible. I am riding an invisible white horse through the narrow steep streets of a medieval town. After a while the path is just too steep; I have to dismount. This is where things become a bit difficult. I have to guide my horse down there, but the only indication of where it actually is are the black reins that end somewhere near its mouth. For there is no saddle.
Dream Log: April 5, 2003
I am in some futuristic city - futuristic in the 70s kind of way. Tall towers of weird shapes, air-transport - but everything is covered with this sepia layer making it look like an old photograph. I am with friends. English-speaking friends. But I don't know what country I am in.
Suddenly I realize that my flight home is leaving in 30 minutes. I can't afford to miss the flight. I am rushed to the airport which is one of those labyrinthine brown-carpeted office buildings. There are many different floors interconnected with others with escalators and staircases. Check-in desks are normal office desks always standing near flights of stairs.
I approach one clerk and tell them that I need to catch my flight and that I'm late and that I'm really sorry about that but I really really need to catch that flight.
Ten minutes left.
No problem, the friendly clerk replies. I should calm down and he would take me to where I can check in my luggage. Down stairs and up escalators we get to luggage check-in. It's one of those desk-thingies that connect a kitchen with the dining room and you can hand food through the window in the wall. Just here I hand over my luggage.
And nobody wants to see my ticket.
I am given directions to the plane now. But they can't accompany me - their working day has ended. Unaccompanied I rush down a further flight of stairs and arrive on the ground floor. I run outside, on the airfield...
Only the airfield is not an airfield but a royal garden surrounding a fairy-tale castle complete with turrets and moat. I stop dead. Where is my plane?
The roof of the castle starts to crumble, something is pushing it away from the inside. People are running about doing last minute preparations for the flight. Dust and small rocks fill the air. And now, finally, the Zeppelin is free to leave the hangar and ready to fly me home.