Of Dreams and Them

Can you recall the first dream that had an affect on you?

From around the age of 5 I remember having a recurring dream that lasted late into my childhood. How strange to think of such a thing repeating again and again and again. And it did over many years and quite often every night and always the same:

It would begin downstairs in my home on the ground floor. Only something drew me upstairs. Something not quite right... that I needed to see. And so I crept upstairs seeking this silent sound, leaving behind the soft voices and the faint warm light of television and family life downstairs. Once upstairs I was confronted with another staircase. A hidden staircase only present in this dream. In reality the bannister bent around and into the wall like any other 3 bed house. But here it bent once more toward the attic, which in reality was only ever an outline in the ceiling.

And so I walked up, every time.

Isn't it funny how often in our dreams we are only ever watching ourselves. Lucidity has its own realm and designation. And what of memory? Why did I continue, again and again and again, to walk up those stairs?

Each step I climbed would give me cause for concern. Something was up there, and every step closer made this more apparent. I didn't want to continue but I couldn't stop myself either. I had to see. And I had to open the door. Even though I knew I wasn't supposed to.

And upon opening it, I disturbed them, and before I could move they were upon me, and looking down at me, and weighing down on me. And I couldn't bear it longer than the one breath I had that could take it in, locked in their impossible presence, a raging canvas of light and darkness and colour expressed in the form of a large androgynous being. And they absolutely terrified me. And it was only once I was in their presence did I suddenly remember them from all the dreams that had been, and all the dreams to come.

So I did what many terrified boys would do. I ran, and I ran and flew as fast as I could, down and down the stairs, sometimes a little further sometimes not, it didn't matter. I never once escaped or even ever looked back. All I recall is fear and claws, catching up to me and searing deep into the flesh of my back, as I hopelessly clung to the ground, before it took me. And then I would wake up.

From all the dreams I have collated over the years, this vial is especially revered. It holds a special place in my collection, and for many different reasons, of which I may elucidate from time to time.

But the reason I asked was this: Of all the dreams we have, Jung spoke of a First, and how surprisingly essential it was, in the role that it would play in the life of that dreamer. And those thoughts still haunt me.