Willow Trees in the Fog

Photo by Romuald Bokėj

Header photo by Romuald Bokėj under Creative Commons 2.0.

I don’t even remember when this dream occurred. Whether it was old, whether it was new…I don’t remember, but I do know it was a place I’d seen in a previous dream. A different part of the same place, with the same air of mystery and timelessness about it. It was inbetween two different places I’d seen in previous dreams, which is the first time my dreams have ever been interconnected between more than two dreams…sometimes I wonder if there really is a story behind it all. Maybe it’s all part of the same world; it is, really, one world I can access conscious or unconscious. They rarely cross over, though. These occasional crossovers are what I write about.

There was fog so heavy it obscured perception and memory as well as vision. It’s one of the only cold foggy days I’ve ever had in a dream, not to mention one of the only times I couldn’t remember when it occurred. It was the only foggy place I’ve ever been to in my dreams, I think. I remember I wasn’t alone. There were a few people that I felt were my friends. There were around…five, six of them? They seemed pretty young and so did I at the time – I was their age. We were on a journey without reason or meaning, probably the only time my mind’s been honest with me. I remember we were in a swamp with plenty of water in vision, trees in vision wherever land was. Small willow trees watched us from the left while leafless poplar trees stood to the right. Where the lake ended (I could faintly see it) there was a sharp hill with yet more poplar trees surrounding the entire area. I couldn’t see it very well but I knew they were there, standing above my level.

The people who were likely my friends were at the edge of peripheral vision, climbing trees, looking around and talking inaudibly. Where I began, there was a small abandoned playground with rusty swings, sunken tarmac and flaking metal benches. It was only a few metres in either direction, but I doubt anyone would come this far out for just this. I’d seen this playground in a dream either previous or to come (I don’t remember) but it was…newer in those dreams. In the other dreams, there wasn’t any swamp and there was only land the other time I saw it. The silence was nearly suffocating. It felt like this “playground” was as old as the swamp was, an abandoned attempt at expanding human territory here but instead retreating back into the fog where my mind couldn’t see.

We’d come so far. We weren’t here for any particular reason, but we rediscovered this place and leaving would have been a waste. The people with me started to gather at the water’s edge at the edge of the fog. They called me over and showed me an old boat they found. On the other side of the wide river was a proud monolithic willow tree that seemingly made itself the centre of the swamp. Against better judgement, we drifted across the river on the boat one by one with the first getting us across. We gathered under the willow tree, protected by its overhanging branches and leaves against the light rain that had started. We all were talking to each other; I can never remember what people talk about in my dreams. This seemed like the last time we would all ever be in contact for a long time and they were also aware of this, so we had to make the best of what we’d been through today. I knew I’d never see them again, but they didn’t. They couldn’t.

And that’s all I remember.

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