• Lucid Dreaming - Dream Views

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    1. Cylons Attack the Fleet

      by , 05-24-2015 at 11:11 AM
      It becomes apparent that I have been watching too much Battlestar Galactica, I start having a lot of dreams with cylons. I also miss a very obvious cue that I am dreaming.

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

      I was a part of a fleet, very reminiscent of the one from the show, but distinctly different. It had split, and half of us had set down upon a planet to await further instructions. All the higher-ups were with the other group, so I suddenly found myself with more power and responsibilities than I had ever had before. We expected no resistance here, so most of us took the downtime as a sort of shore leave. We could finally breathe fresh air and stretch our legs. The atmosphere was breathable, and the forested landscape was very reminiscent of Earth.

      We had a few large carrier ships here along with a number of smaller vessels. All were fitted out with a number of detachable, five-man pods, which could be easily moved or picked up by our multitude of small ferry ships. They were our emergency escape option if we did not have enough time to get the larger ships into the air. We would shuttle the pods into orbit and hope for recovery.

      I was stationed in one of the smaller ships that was mainly populated by political workers; secretaries, advisers and the like. We all got along quite well, which was fortunate given how little space we had to share.

      I was outside enjoying the warm daylight air. The youngest of our group approached, an energetic male in his late-twenties. He made a comment in regards to our continued survival. He was wondering just how long we could expect to live. The rest of us shared a knowing look and laughed.
      "I have cancer," I told him. I was not upset by it.
      "So you're dying?" he asked. The question took me aback.
      "Well yes, I suppose so."

      I wandered around the metal landing brace that we had been gathered around. The air was fresh and plants flourished on this planet. My older friend turned to face me as I approached. He had dark, curly hair and a lazy eye, but he was a very perceptive man.
      "Have you been having any dreams?" he asked.
      "I have, actually. They're pretty good." I shrugged. Any significance had been lost on me.

      Nice one.

      We were back on the ship, in a small area under the open air. It was certainly not a section of the ship that could be utilised during space-flight. Our young friend came into the room.
      "Doesn't it drive you mad sometimes, that any of us could be a cylon and not even realise it?" he asked, exasperated. My friend with the lazy eye addressed his concerns.
      "Whenever I start having those thoughts, I sit down for a while and use this, and it reminds me of what I am." He held up a fist-sized ball covered in a multitude of small, coloured dots. As he rolled it around in his hands with grace and skill, the spectral patterns would seem to move around the ball, following his guidance. It was a remarkable sight.
      "But doesn't that just mean you are more likely to be a cylon?" the young man joked, marvelling at the creation.
      "The orb is covered in floating, magnetic beads," replied my friend.
      "Oh," another chimed in. "I always found that thing fascinating."

      I was outside again, enjoying a quiet evening stroll. That's when the attack began. Fighters came in out of nowhere and began shooting up the ships. We were caught unawares, and the larger carriers would take some time to warm up for flight. I saw a couple of shuttles begin ferrying pods up into the atmosphere, but not nearly enough. I was too far from the ship at this point to run back, but there was a group of parked cars situated not too far away. I felt as though our best chance at survival was to scatter and pray that the rest of the fleet would return before it was too late. Some of the vacant pods began to explode on the undersides of the ships. We only had a limited supply, and even with all of them it wouldn't be enough.

      A utility screeched past with my friend at the wheel and an empty pod in his tray. He didn't stop for me, but I took his cue. I dashed over to a nearby 4x4, selecting one with enough boot space in case I was able to get a pod myself. Fortunately, it was unlocked. I hopped in, hoping that I would remember how to drive in a punch, and dropping the sun visor. Keys fell onto the ground. In relief, I picked them up and hurriedly turned on the engine. The car growled to life and I took to the road, following another survivor in similar style.

      Hundreds of survivors had fled on foot, running out into the parklands. Cylon ground troops had landed in force, and were pursuing them into the forest. I attempted to navigate the chaos, but the roads were impractical and the cylons were wreaking havoc. I saw a pair I had seen many times before. Wherever they were deployed, they never shot a human, but would take the opportunity to 1v1. The would chase each other around instead, and hope their comrades did not discover their little game.

      I ignored them and turned my attention to the madness around me. I saw a group of cylons chasing down some civilians. I pulled the car around and paused for a moment. I was surrounded by chaos, and it would be futile to attempt to navigate my way out, even in a vehicle. I gunned the engine, put my car in gear, and chased down the cylons instead.

      Updated 01-02-2016 at 11:10 AM by 89402

      Tags: cylon, narrative
    2. Leaving It All Behind

      by , 04-27-2015 at 09:21 AM
      A very vivid dream with high continuity. My dreaming personality is a little more extravagant and dramatic than my waking personality. I also have a nice little freak-out when I forget that in a dream, people communicate telepathically/empathically. Weirdly enough, it is only when I type this entry up six months later that I realise that the family at the end are very familiar.

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

      I was in a large, detailed town. The landscape was shaped like a bubble, with the edges of the town curving up towards the sky as though it were situated within a basin. The town proper was quite dense and centralised, comprised of public buildings and several private homes. Apartment complexes stretched up the far side of the basin on the outskirts of the town. I had a home here, several levels tall. I shared it with room mates. Behind my home were several statelier buildings and quiet winding streets.

      My recall begins in my bedroom on the top floor. The town is sunny and pleasant, but I am routinely aware of a presence observing me through one of the windows. When I look out, my vision zooms to a location on the other side of the town. I see a shadow shift on a ledge as someone leaves the area, but I am not fast enough to catch a glimpse of my observer.

      I walk out onto my balcony. It overlooks a public sports oval. There is a crowd gathered there, some of their number are wearing costumes. They are rehearsing for an event the next day where many would come to revel in their self-pity and cling to their vices. They were a harmless lot, ultimately likeable, but foolish. For many years I had known them well, and counted myself as one of them, but no longer.

      I return inside. I am with a small group of my friends, none of whom I know in the waking world. They are all male and dressed in Victorian-era clothing. They seem taken aback when I announce that I will not be joining the festivities this year.
      "Tomorrow, I will be out on my balcony, smoking. If anyone should care to join me, then they would be most welcome," I say, taking a puff from my cigar. One of the younger gentlemen piped up in response.
      "Smoking? Whatever for?"
      "For grandeur." I declare. They chuckle. My closest friend is sitting beside me. He shakes his head at me, but laughs all the same.

      I go outside onto a lower balcony with him. The evening air is enlivening. I get a better look at him now that we are alone. He is a spritely, middle-aged man with a grand moustache and a quick wit. He is always impeccable dressed, but never too extravagant. He sits in silence, drawing from a large, glowing cigar.
      "I'm going to miss these, you know," I say to him, fondly lighting a cigar of my own.
      I look out across the town. The lights are off in the apartments across the basin, but the town below is still full of life.

      I find myself down in the town proper. Three single-levelled buildings are arranged around a common square. The left-most structure is the workshop of a local artist and jewellery designer. She has wicked red hair, and a strong but gentle presence. I notice a young girl smoking cigarettes and dawdling around her building. When the girl finished smoking, the artist burst from her workshop and berated the girl for the lingering smell.

      I had known better, but it struck me as odd that I had already known without being told. I walk around the side of the building. One of my teachers approaches, a wise woman, well-revered by the town. I addressed my concern to her in regards to my own foresight. I was so shocked that I could know what somebody had been thinking without interacting with them. The artist was passing by as I was speaking, and stopped out of curiosity. I had asked the wise woman many questions in the past, but this one surprised her. They exchanged a curious glance, and then looked back at me, puzzled. I felt that it wasn't my experience that they found bizarre, but why now I should fail to understand it.

      I was going somewhere. I would lose something.

      "We should sit over there and have a smoke," a youthful friend suggested to me. I had been deep in thought. We were in a large hall with others, waiting for the rain to pass. Night had fallen and I had been gazing out the great, vast windows before me. This was a familiar place.
      "They're covered in water," a female friend replied. She was right. A few benches were situated on the wooden verandah outside. It artistically swept around the extended wings of the house. But for all its clever design, the walkway did not extend far enough and the eaves were too shallow; rain water dripped down onto the benches.

      I returned home, sharing a few friendly words with my house mates. I proceeded upstairs to my hammock. I was uneasy about the open window through which I could be viewed, but was relieved to find it had already been closed and the blind pulled down.

      The dream shifts, and I am on the rear-most carriage of a speeding train, right where I expected to be. I had caught this train many times before, and even had a good rapport with the rear guard. I rushed to the back of the train. Below the raised platform where the guard would sit, there was a thick, steel archway with a blue, metal door. It served little purpose other than my own.

      I was reaching my end, somehow content with my own undoing. I had known this was coming for a while, and now the time had come to the face the music. I began to speak, a conversation I can hardly remember.
      "We all come to our end eventually, don't we?" I say.
      "What do you mean?" the guard replied from above. I rushed behind the door and fastened it behind me. The train was picking up speed, but I wanted to delay my moment of passing for just a few minutes longer.
      "We degrade, don't we? It's a natural process. Why should we fight it? Would it not be more logical to embrace this demise?" I continued my rhetoric. I had already resolved that it would be this way, and chosen this place because it would quicken the process. Despite my verbose monologuing, my stomach still sank when I began to see the effects unfolding before me.

      I held out my left arm and rolled back the sleeve. It was fading away, turning bony and pale, but also ethereal; shrinking and vanishing before my eyes. I tried to remove my watch, but it too was disappearing and hanging limply around my skeletal wrist.
      "Surely it would be better not to fight it, don't you think?" I asked to my final witness, captivated by the sight before me.
      "I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear what you said," the guard replied. I was snapped from my self-indulgent trance. The wind was roaring, but the guard's ears were keen. They heard every one of my final words, knew in their heart that I was misguided, and would feign deafness now rather than extend advice. My ego was inflamed.

      We were slowing past a station. I deftly rolled from the train and skidded for some metres before coming to a stop near a family of three waiting patiently with their luggage. The train slowed to a halt beside me, the guard and driver both now in the engine. The guard, while distinctly the same person, was now a young female with straight brown hair. I stood up and marched over to them in rage.
      "Fuck you, you piece of shit!" I screamed. They seemed rather unfazed.
      Though still angry, the next few moments were filled with remorse for my behaviour. I felt compelled to apologise to the mundane folk - a rotund man and his wife - for shouting obscenities in front of their son.

      Updated 01-02-2016 at 11:10 AM by 89402

      non-lucid , memorable