Tags: Eyes Tower
My first dream of the new year: nothing to do with egg-plants, hawks, or Mt. Fuji. Though it was quite interesting anyway so I'll relay it here for your enjoyment and for my record.
It took place between January 1st and 2nd. That's the typical day for 初夢 (though I've heard it had historicaly been between the 2nd and 3rd in the pre-Meiji). Anyhow it goes like this:
I'm in the observation deck of a tall tower; hungry and upset gray clouds swallow the whole upper-half of the tower as a wailing wind whips west to east, disturbing the windows and chattering them in their secure fastening, quiet at first and then louder, louder still until it becomes a cacophonous symphony of vibrating glass and steel echoing around the deck.
The noise is so loud that I'm compelled to leave the deck; I look hastily for the stairs and find none. I dart left, right, looking for an exit and still I can find no such thing. I am despaired and overcome with dread that this noise will never stop and that my only relief from such an overwhelming and powerful sound should be going deaf so much that I nearly collapse.
But here I notice a girl; even though I am 10 meters or more away from her I can sense that the air around her is somehow different, alive with rosy energy and charisma from the bubbling fountain of her character. My weary and strained eyes latch onto her and I stare at herself for what feels like a very long time.
Her skin is very clear despite being quite sun-tanned; she resembles someone I know from a long time ago; her hair is a dark chestnut and as she runs her hand through it carelessly it seems to be very volumous too. She laughs a bit after the matter and turns to look directly into my own eyes.
I look away, lightly embarassed, to the window of the tower. The clouds have disappeared and the wind has relented suddenly. I can feel her gaze burning into my side so I slowly look to her again after this long pause. She's closer now, slowly walking up to me in a cool and aware way that I understand well.
We should check out the outside... how does that sound?
Her words teleport me into a higher plane of existence. Is she talking to me? I'm completely unaware but I collect myself eventually.
God that's too short.
Let's do that.
So we head outside; we enter (rather, exit) onto an extension to the observation deck. The extension is guarded only by a thin and dainty perimeter of red railing. The wind calmly musses my hair that I had so carefully styled: I suppose it looks a little better wind-whipped anyway so I make no effort to keep it composed. I look up and notice the blue sky: a gaping sea rocketing upward into a heavenly abyss of black: there's an unearthly gradient from blue to black as one's eyes trace from the horizon upward, culminating into pure black as one's gaze reaches the zenith, directly over one's head and impossibly far away. I've never seen anything like it before and I'm so struck with sensation that the best I can do is to keep my hand on the railing and breath deeply.
Meanwhile she runs straight for that thin red railing, hugging with the full force of her mature body and leaning over the side, unafraid of anything, and yelling joyfully:
Wow! This is absolutely beautiful!
What the fuck is she doing? Has she gone mad? How could you be so impetuous near such a height? But as I stare at her my fear ferments into adoration: she's suddenly very becoming to me and I see her as a flower which has bloomed into my presence: I've seen the rose of her character and I'm unable to see past it: in my eyes her fearlessness has crystalized into Baroque beauty. Her charm gives me the courage to stand and approach her; I grip the red railing, intercepting it at her left. I stare over it all:
It's Toronto: I recognize it immediately. The clouds which lingered earlier around the Toronto tower are far off in the distance, so far that the notion they were ever a concern is laughable and any question of their danger is dismisable. Perhaps they are a danger for someone else but not for us, alighting this position like a goddess of victory and her sculptor.
She's wearing some un-noteworthy t-shirt which says something about Toronto and the tightest jean-shorts I've ever seen. It's remarkable that she ever pulled them over her waist; she has a small leather pochette tossed carlessly over her shoulder, holding her belongings (because those jeans will definitely not hold any more than herself). She looks inquisitively into mine own eyes and thinks for a hot minute; her face is screwed into an expression of confusion that makes me feel as if I'm being inspected. Suddenly her inquisitive look erupts into a smile that threatens to swallow the whole Earth.