Portmanteau film.

I am swimming fast.
The waters are murky. An intense green, barely showing the long, distorted shadows cast by the long palm tress that line the waterway on either side.
The fabric of water is crisscrossed by many tangled, tortuous water-plants.
I peel them apart; yet never forgetting to swim.
Swim fast.
An odd lotus, a lone lotus, a surprising white against a depressing green.
In bloom.
In full sway.
In total contrast. The lotus makes a fleeting appearance in the far corner of my busy left eye.
The emotion on my face is indiscernible.
I am sweating, perhaps.
I am out of breath, perhaps.
But,
i swim.

----------------------------

I walk in gliding movements. Like i am stuck to the wooden foot of a horse in a merry-go-round. Only, i am not going round. I glide.
The world around me is empty; and monochrome. With a tinge of the sun.
And dingy. (Unobtrusively so.)
I see no faces, i hear no sound.
I don't see myself, i don't hear myself.
I see what my feet see. Low and gliding.
Cobbled stone, well-worn pavement rocks, urban refuse.
Warm, water-soaked air in spurts; breaths of weary street dogs? I don't know.
But i know i am not stopping moving. And gliding.

Until,
a jerk.
A strong tug; at a sensitive solar plexus.

(And,
an unenthusiastically staid, weary, rhythmically squeaking fan.)

----------------------------

These are the only two recurrent dreams i get. I am sure they have definite psychoanalytical interpretations.
I don't know.
I wouldn't want to know.
I like the dreams too much.