It's funny how some of the most deep-seated realisations sometimes come to us only in dreams. During this dream I painfully understood that all my life I had been only myself and no-one else. Imagine the horror of finding yourself trapped in one and same body, day after day, year after year, decade after decade. No wonder if one starts to feel claustrophobic. To be able to see oneself one needs a mirror (which does only show one's reverse image, not what one really is) or having oneself photographed or filmed. Unless one being some sort of yogi, there is no chance to leave one's body behind, that clumsy prison of weak, crumbling flesh; one's eyes a 3-D TV camera inside one's skull, one's nose protruding between those; one's ears stereophonic microphones. Why not seeing through someone else's eyes, someone else's point of view, in someone else's body; with someone else's consciousness, experiences and memories? It was not fair. Only by absorbing oneself to a book, movie, music, alcohol, drugs, sex or physical exercise, one could have some sort of hope of forgetting oneself, if only momentarily. Or without a body entirely, only as some sort of uncorporeal mind observing. -- It felt like I was on the verge of being enlightened, or, finally losing my mind. Anything to forget one's solipsism.
I also saw you in my dream. You wanted to switch off your brain for a while by watching bad TV shows, any Hollywood blockbuster movies produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and political debates between presidential candidates, but my problem was that I felt I was never thinking enough.
There in my dream those with under-140 IQs were officially frowned upon by the mental hygiene eugenists. Demagogues and finger-pointers had a field day at the opportunists' sandbox called politics. Government held exhaustive recruitment campaigns to get more cops to the force, who would keep the suburban poor at bay. But no worry, they were kept pacified as long as the tax for alcohol was low. Sexual paranoia was tangible in the air (you've browsed through your Freud, so you are aware of what those snakes and spiders stand for).
So it was only suitable that there was also a poll in this dream of mine: "Under which category of these sexual deviants you fall: a) a fat schizophrenic cyberstalker who spreads his masturbation videos in the Net, b) a 65-year old photographer whose fetish are women's high heel shoes, c) an extreme right-wing nationalist bigot who fantasizes of saliromantic sodomy between different races and those who don't share his crypto-fascist political beliefs, d) a poor melancholic bastard believing in the dated notions of romantic relationships and eternal love."
I decided not to answer, but dastardly jumped into another era (as you know, transitions defying all logic are possible in dreams).
Now I was standing at Tampere's Keskustori square in 1905 where the cigarette-smoking working class President in his rollerskates gave the Red Declaration, and the advertising agency Bob Helsinki sang Marseillaise. Then the President shot Governor-General Bobrikoff with a waterpistol, while Lenin was strutting around wearing ladies' lingerie and Manolo Blahniks, handing out daffodils to the Imperial Guard. Mata Hari made a daring escape from SMERSH with her jetpak, only to be strangled to death when her scarf caught in the open-spoked wheel of Isadora Duncan's automobile. Affectations can be dangerous, indeed.
After this a spider hatched her eggs in my nostrils. I didn't suspect anything until baby spiders started crawling out of my nose and thought I was their mommy. At this moment I was shaken enough to open my eyes.
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