Sleepless Night

I dreamed last night: a dark stagnant whirlpool formed in the dark blue ocean. I jumped in and transported myself between Toronto and my home in China. I walked on the lush meadow in Haikou passing white concrete buildings: a ghost in an old movie. I sat down in a coffee shop and waited for someone to appear. I can see my situation now. I can see it clearly. I was a Godot in waiting. I looked down on the table, a large white bowl appeared with hot noodles. I had no idea who I was waiting for. I looked up. I saw a wide screen across the street. A familiar face appeared on the screen smiling and exhibiting a chain of fluid movements, explaining to the camera about some sort of performance. I felt the pang of betrayal.
The sky slid across like a sheet of teal silk. It trembled. I fled the coffee shop and back to the meadow. An acquaintance from middle school came towards me. I quickly realized this was a symbol, a symbolism, a metaphor. It was a life-or-death situation: if I misinterpreted its meaning, the danger that dangled above me would metamorphose from A to Z. I started to run again. I saw the ocean and the whirlpool. I leaped without thinking.
When I was submerged, I was split in two: one floating above and staring with great curiosity, the other struggling against torrent and breathing. In the water, breathing was fire muted in a glass: my respiration system wrapped tight in a roll of parchment paper. The seconds stretched into the hours. Can fantasy become reality? I pondered about the border between the sky and the sea. What is the limit?


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