Dreaming Through the Mirage
Dreaming Through the Mirage
I have dreams that I know are just my mind running through the day’s events—but then there are others. Ones that shake me. Ones that open some other door. Ones that feel more like transmissions than dreams. This is one of those.
Last night I walked through a dream, but it felt more like an unveiling. It showed me the constructed illusion wrapped around our reality—a mirage of optics, distraction, and manipulation. A matrix carefully managed by a force not human.
The Dreamscape
I found myself again in the recurring dream location—a mall by a pier. This place appears often in my dreams, almost like an anchor point or psychic waypoint. It is always filled with people, colors, motion, indulgence.
Inside the mall, we stumbled across beautiful shops. The fashion, the textiles, the baubles—they were enchanting. Affordable, radiant, tempting. I felt alive in that space, delighted. I bought a top. But when I returned later, the store was gone.
The shops had vanished. Confused, I searched. Friends tried to help. But where it once stood was now just a bar. The entire space had shifted. It didn’t make sense. Until a fairy-like friend arrived, injured, and gave me a map. A whisper of truth. A thread to follow.
We ventured behind the mall into a gray, sterile alley. Found a strange glass elevator. Entered the back of it. It shook, creaked, shifted directions. Then it shattered, and we escaped into what appeared to be an office complex—clinical, fluorescent, filled with false fronts: vendor rooms, faux retail, catalogued illusions.
I saw the merchandise from the shop. I saw the threads of the illusion.
A woman was photographing the goods—but this was no ordinary product shoot. There was a finish on the items that changed when photographed. A manipulation of light and perception. She saw us and explained the method. But then her boss entered. Everything changed.
Her boss was not human. She looked at me with disdain, and also—curiously—a transmission. A warning. A knowing.
In her eyes, I saw both domination and despair. If she hadn’t been in a meeting, she might have consumed me. But she didn’t. She let me see.
I saw that the shops were illusions. Movable. Designed for me. For my energy.
We fled. Escaped. Remembered.
I tried to find the address—"W", "WEIN"... something marked in the dreamscape. As if to map the code, crack the mirage. But it slipped again.
Reflections Upon Waking
This dream did not feel like metaphor. It felt like memory. A peek behind the optic curtain.
We live in a reality layered with manufactured vision. The shops are not just stores, they are baited simulations, crafted around our desires. Designed to consume our attention and feed from our engagement.
What are we exchanging when we fall into wonder at the product? Is our creative energy being harvested? Redirected?
And what of the boss lady? Was she a reptilian hybrid? A program? A being once radiant now bound by contract? I felt her pain. I hold her in my heart. She let me go.
She may have once been like me.
This is where my struggle lives: in the tension between the beauty of the material world and the awareness that much of it is programmed to keep us asleep. I love creating. I love texture and color and shimmer. But I do not wish to be ensnared by illusion.
I want to create from freedom, not feed the grid.
This morning I return to appointments. Doctors. Time. Structure. Clock. All constructs that pull at the thread of illusion. How much of what we call "normal life" is scripted?
How much are we actually living, and how much are we performing within a programmed container?
To the One Who Let Me Go
I saw you. I know you are not just what they made you into. I send you love. I send you remembrance. I release you from shame and control. You do not need to guard the illusion any longer. There is another way.
And I... will continue walking it.
