Lately, it seems as though I am dreaming delightfully joyful dreams with strange frequency. Whenever I awaken after floating through such pleasurable dreams, a faint sense of regret lingers behind—wondering what kind of events would have unfolded next. Yet, like dropping paint into a large porcelain jar, the dream appears vivid for a fleeting moment, only to quickly grow hazy; when I stretch forth my hand thinking I might grasp it, it simply swirls and vanishes entirely.
The place where I awaken after traversing through a beautiful dream is reality. Reality is usually mundane, predictable, and devoid of grand events. While numerous occurrences transpire in an instant within a dream, reality unfurls at an incredibly slow, tranquil pace. Intentionally or otherwise, the vast majority of people arise at a designated hour in the morning, spend their schedules according to the clock, and only after everything concludes do they arrive home to find rest. Even that is a remarkably tight and disciplined life, considering the household chores, minor tasks, and self-care that must be managed.
Come to think of it, it was never easy to remember routine things within a dream. For instance, the sequence of daily events—such as waking up in a dream to brush one's teeth, washing one's face, eating a meal, and slowly sipping a cup of coffee—is exceedingly rare. Instead, fragments of unique incidents always coalesce, forcing one to rapidly experience a singular, monumental event. Given that it is bound to vanish the moment one opens their eyes, why has the mind come to construct dreams with such exquisite intricacy?
Perhaps it is an illusion forged by the brain, feeling that even the hours spent sleeping are too precious to waste. Could it be that it contains a tangible entity born from a blend of lingering regrets about life, fading primal desires, anxieties, and the remnants of memories and emotions? Thus, though no one commands me to do so, I subconsciously record my dreams. I make a particular effort to log those dreams that I especially wish to remember.
Meanwhile, I frequently harbor the thought that this life, too, is nothing more than a single dream. I wonder if we merely exist inside someone else’s dream. There is but one distinction between a dream and reality. Life begins when one opens their eyes and concludes when one closes them. Conversely, a dream begins when one closes their eyes and concludes when one opens them. They are inversions of each other. If one is subordinate to only one realm, they cannot behold the other world. If there were a human being who never slept, they would never know the world of dreams, and could only attempt to imagine it through the words of others. If there were a being who remained solely within the realm of dreams, they would be utterly incapable of comprehending how time flows in the world outside of dreams.
I often think that this lifetime is a single dream. Even if it feels as though we have grasped something with our hands, the truth is that there is absolutely nothing we can hold onto. There is nothing we can take with us past the threshold of death. It makes me think that we are perhaps nothing more than solitary souls, harboring thoughts of unknown origin, living along the tracks of a grim destiny. Because no one knows the reason, no one can discern what lies at the end of life. Perhaps we are all wretched existences who have emerged from an unknown place and must depart toward an unknown destination. For that very reason, could it be that every single person is nothing more than the exact same fragile soul?
Since I do not know where I have come from, it is a perfectly reasonable conclusion that I do not know where I am going. What will I look like in that place? What kind of time will be flowing there? What sort of things will transpire? Will it be an absolute void of nothingness, as some claim? Or will it be a heaven equipped with everything? Or perhaps a place of tribulation designed to cleanse one's karma? The distinction between a dream and that which is not a dream is blurred. There is not a single human being who fully understands either this place or that place. We merely investigate, live our lives, and struggle by all means to find enjoyment—claiming that such is life. Perhaps that is indeed correct. If these are moments destined to end anyway, it would be far better to pass them with at least a bit of joy. Perhaps human beings live simply to be happy. The reason behind it is not important in the slightest.