The Dream Archive

How does it feel if I press here, the masseuse asked, bringing her little fingers together against the back of my head in a needle-like grip. It does not feel like anything in particular, I thought I would reply, but at that very moment a memory fluttered past of a cherry blossom strewn cockpit I had never visited, except in a dream.

The masseuse shifted her grip and pressed her index fingers against each temple whereupon a new dream emerged, a languid marathon under water, the experience wrapped in the same gauze as a memory. This continued again and again during the session, but I said nothing about it to the kneader of muscles, since it would have sounded deranged. I simply noted the peculiarity of what I had experienced and paid.

On the way home I continued to be shaken by dream memories. As soon as I sat in a new position in the metro earlier mist shrouded scenes were brought to life, as if the masseuse had accidentally touched a switch that had disturbed the order within me. It seemed as if every dream I had ever had was documented in a parallel secret archive, which I had now gained access to by mistake.

In a way it was a form of wealth, but also a curse. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of experiences I had only lived through while sleeping flashed before me while I tried to do my work, fold laundry or empty the litter tray. Every association from the open archive had a counter association in the hidden one, a relationship that soon caused feedback.

To stop the attacks I needed to close my eyes, which at least reduced the amount of impressions. Was it really that important? I thought in the darkness in order to calm myself down. Everything that takes place within a self is internal experience anyway. What is based on an external impression is processed and reshaped. An inner exterior or an exterior exterior was a simple thing to confuse. Of course the brain would struggle with the sorting after a period of excessive stress.

If I could just sleep properly everything would surely fall into place again, I thought and collected the prescription sleeping tablets I had refrained from using out of fear of developing a new addiction. That evening I took one pill extra to make sure I was truly knocked out, and in a chemical way turn the switch back again.

When I woke after certainly an entire day’s absence the sheet was drenched and knotted like a liana. There was a sharp ache at the back of my head, almost as if I had been forced through, so perhaps I had succeeded after all. I half-ran to the bathroom to see myself in the mirror, but was soon disappointed. In front of me there was still the same inverted face, with the eyes turned inwards.