Blue_Opossum

Morning of March 1, 2017. Wednesday.

Dream #: 18,335-03. Reading time (optimized): 2 min.



Moving through a deeper state of water induction, after letting my lucidity fade, I recall a big fish in an aquarium. The fish takes up nearly the entire aquarium. An old man with a long white beard owns it. I see this on a large screen in an unfamiliar bedroom. Zsuzsanna is with me at times. I am wearing clothes, but I mostly stay on my left side in bed with my head facing the opposite direction as the monitor.

The screen covers most of the upper two-thirds of the wall. The fish is facing left in profile. The old man is in his living room, and another unknown male is in the background.

Eventually, I realize there is an octopus aquarium (owned by the same old man). It becomes the dominating scene on the big screen. I find amusement in watching baby octopuses swimming. There are hundreds of them. They are too tiny to discern much detail. (It vaguely reminds me of looking at stars in the night sky.) Zsuzsanna watches the images for a time. I point out small strands of food they are eating. (I was first unable to tell the difference between the food particles and the baby octopuses, but my view zooms in at times.)

While I occasionally watch the screen, I hear former schoolmate Tony talking to his grandfather (even though no one else is present). This event was in the past, though I am hearing it now. On notebook paper, he wrote several phrases in a tribal language (erroneously from Papua New Guinea, but it should be a Native American language) taught by his grandfather. Tony had discarded many of his belongings. Plastic bags full of what he threw out teleported to the bed. (I do not consider how impossible this is, though I get the impression that it might have something to do with a random “download.”)

I look through some of his plastic grocery store bags, noticing the notebook pages (some folded in half) with his writing (though I do not recall any of the phrases), as well as other items. I am unsure of what I should do. Most of his stuff was from before eighth grade. There is no sign he would know what I saw of his.

Zsuzsanna comes in again, telling me she found some of my older writing. She places some papers (that are stapled together at the upper left) at the foot of the bed. I see a story or long dream journal entry printed in pencil I supposedly wrote at around age seven. It is at least twelve pages on notebook paper. Written on the top line of the first page is “Frankenstein.” A bit farther to the right is “1948,” followed by “by” and my name. It puzzles me as I think it should be “1968.” I am unsure why I would have written that year other than in error. As I become more puzzled about why I might have written “1948,” I wake.

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