I killed a woman in my dream. A complete stranger, she was a young sales clerk at a small boutique clothing store in Vancouver. My murderous deed harbored no rage or resentment--just eerie calmness and indifference. She offered no resistance and let out no scream. She simply took my stabbings in stride, as if it were her fate. When her body turned into nothing more than a conglomerate of dying cells and coagulating blood, I dismembered the corpse and stuffed all the parts in a large sack. Then, with the sack slung around my shoulder, I started wandering the streets of the dark city in its late hours.
Before the strike of dawn, I entered a hotel and found my way to the basement where, in a secluded corner, was a row of portable toilets. Inside one of the empty stalls, I opened the sack and reached in. I felt the cold, rubbery flesh of her right hand and grabbed it as if to shake hands, and pulled it out. Along with the hand came the arm, the shoulder, and a portion of her chest. That was all I could find in the sack--other body parts had disappeared. I dumped this chunk of blue-gray flesh in the toilet and left. There was no guilt, no remorse. In fact, the beat of my heart was calm and steady, and my mind was sharper than ever. Leaving the hotel, I thought about an alibi. Thanks to my clear thinking head, there was no need to think so hard or for long. At the time when the young clerk was killed, I was at another place, involved in some innocuous activity. The murder was carried out by my other self, the one that separated from my ego, an existence that was me but no longer me.
Before the strike of dawn, I entered a hotel and found my way to the basement where, in a secluded corner, was a row of portable toilets. Inside one of the empty stalls, I opened the sack and reached in. I felt the cold, rubbery flesh of her right hand and grabbed it as if to shake hands, and pulled it out. Along with the hand came the arm, the shoulder, and a portion of her chest. That was all I could find in the sack--other body parts had disappeared. I dumped this chunk of blue-gray flesh in the toilet and left. There was no guilt, no remorse. In fact, the beat of my heart was calm and steady, and my mind was sharper than ever. Leaving the hotel, I thought about an alibi. Thanks to my clear thinking head, there was no need to think so hard or for long. At the time when the young clerk was killed, I was at another place, involved in some innocuous activity. The murder was carried out by my other self, the one that separated from my ego, an existence that was me but no longer me.
* * * * *
This dream was had in 2006, shortly after my trip to Vancouver and Seattle. I had it posted on my Korean blog, until a few protests soon came my way for its violent nature. This had me worry that I may have hidden inner desire for violence. The real meaning of the dream, however, did not hit me until this morning, as I stood in the shower lathering my right arm. It was really about the growing sense of disconnect between body and mind, between reality and perception / interpretation, between reason and emotion. The portrayal of violence was only a vehicle locking the real meaning in symbols. There is nothing puzzling about suddenly remembering this dream and realizing its meaning after all this time, and why it had to be this morning.
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