Dream with a sitar at the end

We were at cabin in the mountains. (Who’s we?). I hear voices, We must go, we must go now. We got on a bus and rode for a long time. I knew it was a long time because I saw the sun moving fast in the sky. The bus rode on the abrupt slant of the mountain. There was a deep valley underneath. On the other side of the valley I saw another enormous mountain, taller than us. (Who’s us?). It was barren and bereft of vegetation. Maybe because of the altitude. The mountain was packed with geometric sculptures and houses carved into rock and big cone-shaped boulders posing as landmarks or defenders of some sort of hidden space. There were trails and stairs running in all directions and the mountain had no patch of natural shapes. It was all transformed. It was dark-grey.
The bus descended abruptly into a narrow canyon into a deadend. The deadend was a tall gate of iron. We went through the gate into a large space. It was a hall with a row of thick pillars running from the entrance to an infinite end. Between pillars there were other smaller rooms, lighted by an artificial source. There was no one around, just us. (Who’s us?!). The echo spoke of a time with loaded memories. Once, there were a lot of people coming here. The air was galled and unfrequented by motion, except for the specks of lint that lingered in the heat of light. We entered a room between two pillars. (We?!). The inside defined intuition and logic. It was much larger that one would think. It was packed with stacks of metal shelves high as the eyes can see, and there was no ceiling, except for an idea of a terminal point. On the shelves: objects in labelled boxes, by categories, by year, by fabric, by purpose. Endless stacks of boxes. Someone told me I can help myself with whatever I want. In a corner there was an upright container with walking canes. Stainless steel canes. I picked one. It was dented. I didn’t like the handle. I took another one. It felt good in my hands. The dents were not so bad. I thought I could still use it. I asked myself why I choose a dented stainless steel walking cane. I didn’t know. I decided to keep it. We walked through the shelves into the next room, then into the next. Just like in a museum. The last room was full of musical instruments in disarray. Thrown into a pile in a hurry. An Asian old man came to me with a sitar. He told me to try it. I never played a sitar before, I say. Play, he said. I started playing and I was very good at it. I didn’t know what I was doing. My fingers just pinched the cords fast and some surreal music filled the room. The music smelled of granite. It had no echo, it was local around me, the instrument and the Asian old man. He told me to sit down. Then I saw to my left my sister, as she was when she was young. To my right, somebody else, I don’t know who. I sat down. In the same moment my sister stood up wanting to grab a big mug with coffee. She knocked down the sitar. I thought whether I should be upset or not. I decided not to be upset. The Asian old man picked up the instrument and looked at the broken cords. They can be fixed, he said.
I woke up wanting to play music.


About Vlad Bunea

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