I was in a room, square and layered, not walls within walls, but layered balconies upon layered balconies. At the center of this room stood a tree, its branches reaching out toward the ceiling. The leaves of the tree were noticeably scarce, each departing leaf felt like a pronounced event.
I was observing the base of the tree from above, around it stood three figures. Their faces were known to me; they were the faces of lovers from my past. They lingered in the tree's shadow, and our memories shared played in front of me. The memories were like echoes, faint and resonant reminders.
Slowly walking around the various balconies were people caught in a paradox of being and unbeing. Their faces were blurred; they moved slowly like zombies, yet their appearance spoke of life.
In the disarray of the dream, my location became fragmented, flashing from one location to the next within the room. I remember holding one of my past lovers, recalling a feeling of a missed opportunity with them. Perhaps more accurately, it was a memory of moments marked by my failed expression of my own inner feelings toward them. The lack of expression being done—noticeably—out of fear; fear that I often fail to properly identify.
But then, her face and body transformed into another of the three lovers. I found myself sitting with her at the base of the tree, only to notice the once slow-moving, zombie-like humans suddenly hurling themselves off the balcony and crawling toward us. The love in my arms began to shift rapidly, their face and body cycled through the faces and bodies of the three lovers in rapid succession.
The tree at the center of the room burst into flames. I woke up.
I was sad and depressed for a couple of days after this dream. The human psyche is a weird place. I recently read Michel Houellebecq’s novel, Serotonin. It left me puzzled and intrigued. Did I even enjoy the novel? I wasn’t sure. I’m still not sure. I suppose the book stirred something within me, and that might be something of a recommendation.
"Basically, for several years after my separation from Camille, I had told myself that we would find one another again sooner or later, that it was inevitable since we loved each other, that we just needed to let the wounds heal, as they say, but we were still young and had our whole lives ahead of us. Now, I turned around and noticed that life was over, that it had passed us by without really giving us any clear signs, then it had quietly, discreetly and elegantly taken its cards back and simply turned away from us." -- Houellebecq
Life does pass us by without giving us any clear signs. Our course in life is constantly shifting and that shifting is often silent. We wait for signs, we wait for understandings, only for us to realize that these signs and understandings may never materialize. So, life slips through our fingers, leaving behind faint echoes of the past.
To me, my dream embodies some of these echoes — it represents moments that contain potential depth and intricacy, moments that might have been overlooked. This leads me to a crucial realization: those instances brimming with complexities related to love, relationships, and connections demand our conscious nurturing. We are the creators of these moments.
We must play an active role in dwelling in life’s mysteries, to seek potential truths around relationships and love, otherwise, our passivity will leave us empty and hollow.
Why is it that connections and relationships frequently transition from affectionate and passionate moments into mere arrangements between individuals?
“I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.” — Celine, Before Sunrise
I’ve always enjoyed this quote and it felt fitting with the theme of some of my recent thoughts. The enigma that encompasses our lives—our existence—is situated within the gaps that exist between us as human beings. It’s a poetic acknowledgment of the profound connections we share, especially the connection we share around the uncertainties of our human experience.
In the context of love, the space in between can be seen as the mutual understanding, effort, and consciousness that keep a relationship healthy and fulfilling. It's not just about two individuals; it's about what they create together.
The Before Sunrise quote and the tree bursting into flames within my dream reminded me of a metaphor I once read by Jacques Lacan, where someone reaches down to grab a flower only for it to suddenly burst into flames, and then become another hand reaching back towards them.
You see, the flower bursting into flames encapsulates the sudden appearance of love, a phenomenon most unpredictable. It catches our mind off guard, consuming our thoughts. But the flames also speak of our desire’s momentary nature, as it’s the desire that drives us, yet it’s our desire that is never fully attained. The flame shows we can never fully comprehend those moments of connection, including the love, and the relationship.
The answers are in the attempt at understanding.
The flower burst before us, providing us a show of beauty, yet the pain that the flame provides leaves us unable to fully grasp any certainty of the moment. Thus, we are inevitably left with echoes of those memories.
There’s beauty in the attempt at understanding, to engage with the complexities of love and relationships actively. Whether we’re reaching for a burning flower or trying to comprehend someone else’s thoughts and feelings, the act of reaching becomes an embodiment of our humanity, our vulnerability, and our understanding of love, along with its uncertainty. It’s a reminder that the effort to connect, even when fraught with uncertainty and potential failure, is where the real beauty and meaning of life reside.
And if we fail to accept this the echoes of the past will only grow.
Stay curious.
There's a Jungian trope about threes (and, of course, cross gender figures as anima/animus): He posits a progress of integrating his four functions in which there first three can be disentangled with the integration of excluded elements of individual biography. But the fourth is embedded in the collective unconscious where the fracture lines aren't basically solvable through some sort of personal 'heroics', eg solve death will ya. So the whole dynamic changes as you move from 3 to 4.