"I Die, but the Memory Lives on" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mankell Henning)

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I often dream about death. My own death, the deaths of others, the death of everybody. The images are usually clear and distinct. Realistic, you might say. A dead person is dead. The dreams are most often well scrubbed, stripped of symbolic implications. There is no room for metaphysics. My dream-maker does not allow any religious or supernatural excursions.

That is why I am surprised by this coniferous forest with its remarkable, lifeless faces. It is as if the dream has intruded upon my subconscious, is there without permission.

Afterwards, when I wake up, it strikes me that nothing like it has ever before taken place in my brain while I've been asleep. Not at any rate according to what I have been able to remember of my dreams afterwards.

Most dreams evaporate into their own secret archives, to which nobody has a key. But that those archives exist I have no doubt.

Dreams can be deceptive. Hard to pin down. Not least when they have dressed themselves up as real life.

This dream upsets me. It seems to me that the images of the conifers and all the dead people have been visiting the inside of my head by mistake. As if they had no business to be there.