Listening Schedule
Dragon Reborn RED | Jun 2024 Multistage Stage IVC6
15 mins, Tues and Thur, 7 days break after 21 days
Dream of the Shaking World
I often have this dream whenever I’ve had a truly good night’s sleep—usually after pushing myself to the limit at the gym, or when I’ve gone a few days without listening to my scheduled subs. It always seems to come during those quiet nights when my body is exhausted but my mind stays alert.
In this dream, I never lose awareness. I remain fully conscious, certain that I won’t forget what I see. I don’t want to be a part of it; I only want to watch. It feels like I’m standing on the edge of another world—familiar yet distorted—like a place only a few blocks away from the city where I actually live.
Then the ground begins to shake.
At first, I think it’s an earthquake. I ask the people around me, but they tell me it isn’t. Their voices are trembling, but they don’t seem to understand what’s happening either. In the distance, I can hear explosions—low, echoing booms that roll across the city. The sky turns a deep gray, smothered by black smoke and falling debris. People are running in every direction, shouting names I don’t recognize.
It doesn’t feel like doomsday, though. Not quite. I still see police officers trying to control the chaos, guiding people toward safety as if this were just another disaster they could handle. Buildings burn in the distance, their outlines flickering behind waves of smoke. I start to wonder if this is war—but against whom?
I remember that I left my car safely parked at a nearby mall. Somehow, I know it’s still there, untouched. I go inside, searching for a department store that sells televisions so I can check the news. I find one, but the screens show nothing unusual—just the usual morning programs, people laughing, anchors smiling, advertisements playing as if nothing is wrong. That’s when the dream starts to twist.
As I try to hold onto my dream awareness, I feel myself slipping—losing control. A faint fear creeps in, that deep, slow-moving fear that comes from knowing you can’t wake up yet. Whenever that happens, I turn myself into something else, something stronger—a superhero flying above the chaos. I soar above the burning streets, the panicked crowds, and the black horizon. From up there, everything looks calm again, like a map of a world that’s falling apart quietly.
Then I remember something from real life: most government offices keep their clocks synchronized with the head office’s official time. I decide to visit one of those buildings, hoping it might help me understand where—or when—I am. When I arrive, the place is empty. The lights are still on, and I can see traces of people who were just there—a coffee cup, a half-written report, a chair slightly turned. But there are no clocks.
Only Christmas decorations.
Tinsel glitters under the dim light, and a small artificial tree stands near the reception desk, its ornaments swaying slightly as if someone had just passed by. It’s strange because I know it’s not December. The sight of it fills me with unease, as though the dream is trying to tell me something but refuses to use words.
I stand there, surrounded by quiet, with only the faint echo of explosions outside, wondering if I’m witnessing the end of something—or the beginning of it.
