jungian dreams

in jungian dreams,
black is both white and black;
vividness is both a willy-nilly blurred image and as clear as the sun shining at you.
the tree is split into two by an invisible force,
and naked bodies dance in ancient rituals unknown.
the unknown bodies surround the boy that never could escape the school compound.

in jungian dreams,
the manikins are both secrets and obvious tautologies.
where the tearing of flesh by canine beasts,
felt without any pain but a profund emotion bathes you into a quiet submission.
leaves you lying on floating clouds and the great buildings crumbled beneath you.

in jungian reality,
the voices of men are automated voice-overs,
so cold and distant, mockeries to the profound unknown,
a collective secret to all, but a discreet thorn in the flesh, never to be removed by mere intellect.
so I love solitude, and to leave the old man to decide my fate.
so I despise the young man, so passionate and bold in his desires,
an archetypal behaviour no doubt, but who is that green man who haunts me?

back to jungian dreams,
the talking creatures warn me of future trials and tribulations.
seasons of faith will not save me.
the stones will fall on me, and I will be just be like another stone,
cold to the touch, unfeeling, left alone for centuries, small and insignificant.
skips three times when I throw it onto the surface of a lake.
the empty house returns to haunt me.

remember my dreams of trees.
deja vu of my future existence.
only to separate my personalities into two.
ever so familiar hunger and thirst,
release me, no relief.
my entire consciousness against my unconsciousness,
feeding each other, fighting, peaceful interactions, constantly;
where it is no longer about strength and courage,
but a flight to an eroticism of violence,
the more I am not myself, I am returning to being myself.
the more I hate, the more I can love.
to fall is not to immediately begin with a free fall,
glide for a moment, the wind surrounds me, suspends me,
I am lifted,
to leap is to fly up,
it is to suspend, to fall.

Yes, Jung, so your secret is not that secretive after all.