The reason my body dragged itself

I am dreaming, but I not yet know it.

In the dream there is a building. This is a sort of night club, but the cost of entrance is three thousand dollars.

I pay the fee to enter, but I also decide to wear a safety vest and see if the bouncer will let me through without paying, thinking I've been hired to do some kind of work in the club. Both things happen without contradiction, but none of them matter once I am inside.

The club is very elegant, but also very empty, which is to be expected, this place's main product is the feeling of exclusivity after all.

I walk around looking for other people, hoping I'm not the only person inside. I go up the stairs and I indeed find some rooms with a few people talking and dancing, but I also find a few rooms with beds...

I keep moving along until I find an empty room with another dream inside.

In this dream I am in a primitive world, say, early 1600s or so.

This dream is about books.

Books are important in this world. I have trouble trying to remember this dream, but I remember the general shape of it all.

There was an authority trying to control books, there were people trying to have book freedom. I helped them moving old crumbling books around. I went into stone buildings carrying my contraband. I was given important nearly sacred books to hold and transport. I had to bluff my way out of interactions with a strict woman.

Then, in that dream, I saw her. Black skin, curly hair, genuine smile.

I was back in the first dream. In the room there wasn't another dream anymore, there was an art exhibit.

This art exhibit was a series of sculptures, but they weren't made of stone, they were colorful, they were painted.

Each sculpture had a door, a regular wooden door, and a spirit passing through it horizontally. In each sculpture the spirit had advanced more and more, like if the sculptures were different frames of animation.

The spirit looked horrible. Green slime coming our of it, an enraged inhuman expression, gray rotting skin, clothes that were barely rags.

In each sculpture as the spirit dragged itself over the door more and more slime was released, like blood, like if it was split in half, but I could see the legs in the other side.

"It is called 'The reason my body dragged itself'," she says.

When I look at her I have glimpses of the previous dream. A teacher, an important book, something about to change... I try to remember but there is no time, this dream continues.

"That's an odd name," I reply. She smiles, she's so pretty.

I walk around the art exhibit, she points a few interesting things to me, I ask her a few questions. 

Then I leave the art exhibit and... something happens. I went to the other rooms, talked with other people, but of course, those other people were myself, my subconscious, because this is a dream. I don't remember what those character said.

I am back in the room of the art exhibit, but now I know.

"You're a ghost!," I say to the pretty girl. I don't remember how I learned this, but I have no doubt it is true. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Imagine if I went around telling people I'm a ghost. Nobody would believe me. You have to meet me and learn I'm a ghost on your own."

"So this is you?," I ask, talking about the art exhibit.

"Inspired in me, in my story."

Writing this now, I wonder... Maybe the building of the club was the same as the stone building I was smuggling the books out of in the other dream. Maybe when I entered the room she showed me her story, maybe I was looking at everything through her eyes.

"You don't look like a ghost," I point out.

"No, I can touch things..."

My mind goes through a lot of things at that moment, a lot of instances of ghost touching stuff in movies, books, and tv shows. I remember the scene in "Ghost" when an experienced ghost teaches the protagonist to touch things. He says he has to put "all of his rage, all of his grief into it," or at least, that's how I remember it.

Then I dream a cartoon family. A father, a mother, and two sons. The father is cruel and violent, but it is a cartoon, so it is supposed to be enduring somehow. Then the father and the sons die, leaving the mother alone. Now that they are ghosts, the father and the sons try to learn that technique from ghost so that they can interact with the mother.

I dream a very disturbing scene. The father is about to hit the youngest son in the face, because they are trying to practice the technique. The father punches him, and the son has a typical face of a hurt cartoon character, they have succeeded, but I know something is very wrong with that whole thing.

I wake up somewhat. Probably mosquitos. I go back to sleep.

The dream continues in the art exhibit.

Now there is a bed in the room. Is this a horny dream?, she is very pretty after all, and we just stablished people can feel ghosts.

I look at her. Something is odd. This is not a horny dream.

"This is a dream," I say.

"Yes," she replies.

"It is an interesting dream," I point out. At the time I had a better recollection of the whole issue with the books. "I should write this when I wake up."

"Yes, please write it, hopefully someone will recognize me."

"What?"

"You are not the first one to dream with me," she explains.

"I don't understand."

She speaks again, but I don't remember her words, perhaps I'm not supposed to remember too much.

She explained something about herself, and the door, the and the reason her body dragged itself.

She is looking for something, she is trying to accomplish something.

I don't know what it is, but she asks me to write what I've dreamt.

It feels like doing a favor for a friend.

I cannot remember our conversation very well, but I remember we got along, and we understood each other. Must be because she liked books too.

"The title is 'The reason my body dragged itself'," she tells me.

And that's the last thing I remember about that dream.