Fictions are merely frozen dreams linked images with some semblance of structure. They are not to be trusted no more than the people who create them.

What are the dead anyway but waves and energy Light shining from a dead starThat by the way is a phrase of Julians. I remember it from a lecture of his on the Iliad when Patroklos appears to Achilles in a dream. There is a very moving passage where Achilles overjoyed at the sight of the apparition tries to throw his arms around the ghost of his old friend and it vanishes. The dead appear to us in dreams said Julian because thats the only way they can make us see them what we see is only a projection beamed from a great distance light shining at us from a dead starWhich reminds me by the way of a dream I had a couple of weeks ago.I found myself in a strange deserted city an old city like London underpopulated by war or disease. It was night the streets were dark bombed-out abandoned. For a long time I wandered aimlessly past ruined parks blasted statuary vacant lots overgrown with weeds and collapsed apartment houses with rusted girders poking out of their sides like ribs. But here and there interspersed among the desolate shells of the heavy old public buildings I began to see new buildings too which were connected by futuristic walkways lit from beneath. Long cool perspectives of modern architecture rising phosphorescent and eerie from the rubble.I went inside one of these new buildings. It was like a laboratory maybe or a museum. My footsteps echoed on the tile floors.There was a cluster of men all smoking pipes gathered around an exhibit in a glass case that gleamed in the dim light and lit their faces ghoulishly from below.I drew nearer. In the case was a machine revolving slowly on a turntable a machine with metal parts that slid in and out and collapsed in upon themselves to form new images. An Inca temple click click click the Pyramids the Parthenon.History passing beneath my very eyes changing every moment.I thought Id find you here said a voice at my elbow.It was Henry. His gaze was steady and impassive in the dim light. Above his ear beneath the wire stem of his spectacles I could just make out the powder burn and the dark hole in his right temple.I was glad to see him though not exactly surprised. You know I said to him everybody is saying that youre dead.He stared down at the machine. The Colosseum click click click the Pantheon. Im not dead he said. Im only having a bit of trouble with my passport.WhatHe cleared his throat. My movements are restricted he said.I no longer have the ability to travel as freely as I would like.Hagia Sophia. St. Marks in Venice. What is this place I asked him.That information is classified Im afraid.1 looked around curiously. It seemed that I was the only visitor.Is it open to the public I said.Not generally no.I looked at him. There was so much I wanted to ask him so much I wanted to say but somehow I knew there wasnt time and even if there was that it was all somehow beside the point.Are you happy here I said at last.He considered this for a moment. Not particularly he said.But youre not very happy where you are either.St. Basils in Moscow. Chartres. Salisbury and Amiens. He glanced at his watch.I hope youll excuse me he said but Im late for an appointment.He turned from me and walked away. I watched his back receding down the long gleaming hall.

You cannot build a dream on a foundation of sand. To weather the test of storms it must be cemented in the heart with uncompromising conviction.

Whats happened to me he thought. It was no dream.

But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander aimless homeless alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life.

When true happiness shows up the ego is bored with it Its too plain too ordinary and it doesnt leave us feeling special or above the fray. It doesnt take away our problems which is the egos idea of happiness. The ego wants no more difficulties no ore sickness no more need for money no more work no more bad feelings only unending pleasure and bliss. Such perfection is the egos idea of a successful life. However the happiness the ego dreams of will never be attained by anyone. The ego denies the reality of this dimension where challenges are necessary to evolution and blissful states and pleasure come and go.

All is as if the world did cease to exist. The citys monuments go unseen its past unheard and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.

I think that love is stronger than habits or circumstances. I think it is possible to keep yourself for someone for a long time and still remember why you were waiting when she comes at last.... I would enter your sleep if I could and guard you there and slay the thing that hounds you as I would if it had the courage to face me in fair daylight. But I cannot come in unless you dream of me.

There are symbolic dreams-- dreams that symbolize some reality. Then there are symbolic realities -- realities that symbolize a dream. Symbols are what you might call the honorary town councillors of the worm universe. In the worm universe there is nothing unusual about a dairy cow seeking a pair of pliers. A cow is bound to get her pliers sometime. It has nothing to do with me.

Waking consciousness is dreaming but dreaming constrained by external reality