This is tor. I am stressed. This is what I wrote:

It begins in a small room made of mud—the roof is dry grass of the sort you find in deserts. The air is dry. The heat, everywhere. Through the small square hole in the wall, very high up, is a pink sky. But we are not on Mars, though the landscape be as barren. It is bright in the room. The walls are thick. It is very bright outside.

I am sprawled on the floor, my Sec 4 Chemistry book in front of me, reading. But I can’t, suddenly. I cannot turn the page. Upon it thrashes a thick brown coil, a great earthworm, it seems, all blood and muscle, in agony, covering my words with slime, blood and soil. To one side stands a black crow, its head jerking from side to side, taking sneaky little bites. I can see blood, pumping, through the skin of the worm, the little vessel in its centre gasping madly, as if for air.

Fascinated as I am, I must go on. I turn the page, pressing the paper firmly downwards with my hand until the juices run and squelch between my fingers. The door is on my right. A big, barnyard affair, wood nailed together. I draw the old-fashioned bolt, and push the door open to reveal a pink sky rushing to meet the horizon. Of dying cows.

The land is covered by dying cows. Dying cows everywhere, reaching to the horizon. It is a scene of visceral decay. I am overwhelmed with sadness for all these cows. I see a horrribly mutilated young calf, eyes covered with a white rheum, dried blood mixed with the dead bodies of flies, bloated from its flesh. I do not know why these cows were injured. I do not know why they are dying. But I am determined to save them.

But. I can’t! They are too many! Too many for me to carry to the nearest town. I pick up the young calf, and start walking.

I don’t know why I keep having this dream. Is my self image a cow? There is a slightly farcical quality to this, considering cows are usually used in funny imagery. Farce is what you call funny things which are tragic, like charlie chaplin, or mr bean. Or clowns. I think it is exam anxiety. Yesterday I dreamt I was in a gothic castle a la Harry Potter, except the courtyards were filled with statues of famous philosophers. And they could talk, a la Necroscope. They were all grey, but the light was yellow, like evening sun. I could see dust motes in the streams of light but it did not seem dusty. I was in a grey room looking out into the courtyard. I spoke to the figures there. There were many statues.

See? My dreams are all of me being trapped inside a small place, with a big place outside. The small place is always grey, or brown, or dark. And the outside space is infinite, or I can’t see the end. There are always lots of things outside, and it is bright and pretty. I can see their form, but their content, or meaning, is mysterious. I don’t feel trapped in the dream, because I can always go outside. But when I do, I don’t fully appreciate the things outside. Why? maybe i am just stressed.