Galatea Of The Dreams

I can’t fall asleep tonight. The TV is bro­ken, and it is impos­si­ble to immerse into life behind the blue screen. What should I do? He fell asleep, self­ishly hid­ing on our bed, look­ing so con­tent. Where is he? Some place else…..dreaming. What about? Who comes to his dreams? Some­one does, and that some­one prob­a­bly is a woman. How does she look like? Is she is all about big dreamy eyes with long eye­lashes? She is sur­real. The ten­der square between her nude breasts looks like a win­dow through which the aqua­ma­rine sky and olive tree is clearly vis­i­ble. She takes his hand and they both walk through this square to the place sur­rounded by moun­tains, with orange sun behind the dead olive tree. He is look­ing at her with incomprehension.

-‘’Where are we?’’

She walks through the tawny mist slowly, until her long eye­lashes hang over his head like golden sus­pen­sion bridges lead­ing to eter­nity. He looks at her face that is so close, her eyes wide-open, and sud­denly he sees through them; the myr­iad of mol­e­cules, accu­rately lined up and run­ning to invis­i­ble point of the small­est, entwin­ing with oth­ers to form an inverted tri­an­gle –con­stantly mov­ing, falling apart into a com­plete chaos, a splash of mul­ti­col­ored par­ti­cles danc­ing in the whirlpool of mad­ness. Now he can see that she is much big­ger, look­ing at him from above. She is com­prised of these par­ti­cles and her face is the face of an angel with thin arched eye­brows and eyes filled with compassion.

–What time is it? Morning?

He is des­per­ately try­ing to find a clock, and sees that three of them are melt­ing, run­ning down as though they were made from the water reflect­ing the time of eternity…

–What time is it? The angel is sadly look­ing at him and sud­denly the roar­ing wind of pro­tons sweeps her pre­car­i­ous fea­tures, bounc­ing and cast­ing mil­lions of par­ti­cles, cre­at­ing a wind of chaos, try­ing to pull him into this meta­phys­i­cal mad­ness; deeper and deeper, he is almost blinded by the devour­ing wind, unable to see the way out. What time is it? White time?

He is escap­ing through the square shape win­dow back into the room. He looks at his night guest with hor­ror but she is noth­ing she was before. There is a ten­der boy with golden hair sit­ting in the mid­dle of the square hold­ing dark-blue egg. The woman lov­ingly looks at the boy pro­tect­ing him from the world. Her face is so familiar…She is me, and the boy– is our son. It is 12:36 am, my hus­band is sleep­ing soundly. The swede Cat­alon­ian twi­light at the other side of the square is dimly lit by the orange moon.

The tall slen­der man with mys­ti­cal Span­ish eyes is stand­ing up from the ground next to the olive tree. He is com­ing very close to the square,smiling con­de­scend­ingly .He curi­ously peeks into our room and shuts the window-door which now looks like a cover of the book with name writ­ten in Span­ish: ‘’Sal­vador Domingo Felipe Jac­into Dalí’’