Guest Blog: A Recurring Dream by Branka Cubrilo

I am always reminded to look at the library, sit there, and replenish my inspiration and energy.

Sure I can walk slowly and confidently, I am walking home. I know this path, my feet touching a soft, moist meadow, the birds are greeting me and the leaves are rustling in a light, pleasant breeze whispering welcoming words. I am in an altered state of mind, so everything appears to be sharper and clearer, all my senses are overwhelmed with the intensity of colours and divine bird songs. The breeze on my cheeks makes me feel as if a big soft feather is caressing them; the sun is big and so bright, yet not too hot, which makes me feel tranquil and full of energy at the same time.

I am approaching a town, the trees are big, with bright green leaves, and on some trees there are flowers of vibrant colours, like walking through a Monet painting. I am one with everything knowing I am going back home. The town is shimmering in sunlight; it looks like it is swinging to the rhythm of the breeze, swaying with the big and small leaves; everything appears to be in perfect harmony. I barely remember that I was tired not long ago, it is just a distant memory fading whilst I am looking at this picture of a swaying town where birds sing astonishing songs.

The buildings are big, very big as if they were built for giants. They are made of white stones. Stained glass on the big windows, round soft lines of the buildings and the salty fresh air make my heart beat quicker. I hurry in anticipation whilst remembering as I see them, the golden domes which have never faded from my memory. I am going back home, I know that and my feet are light, my heart content and my soul knows the song the birds are singing.

There he is. He never aged even though I don’t remember when I saw him last. I just know that there was a time when he said, “I’ll see you again.” His hair is long, white, just like his beard – long and white. I can’t determine his age; his face is placid without any signs to indicate his age. I see him waiting for me. A smile on his face tells me he was waiting just for me. He just nods his head. I follow. He enters the most prominent building at the town square, I follow. Upon entering I look around; left and right, up as far as my eye can reach, I see books everywhere.

We are in a library.

Branka Cubrilo

He pushes forward a tall ladder on the wheels. I follow. He leans the ladder against a shelf that reaches all the way to the top of the library, but my eyes can’t see exactly where it ends. He indicates to climb up, which I do. Somewhere on the seventh row, he tells me to stop. He tells me to look up which I do. He asks me to look at the books from number twenty-two to number forty-four on that shelf, which I do. He asks me, how many books do we have so far? I struggle to understand, asking him to repeat the question. I see the books from number one to number twenty-one and the letters on their spine are blurred, so I am unable to read the title or the name of the author, just as the books after number forty-four. He is telling me that the question is so simple and he can’t clarify or make it any simpler, he says: “Look, you’ll understand.”

I look at the books and now I understand: I find my name on them. He nods his head. I am looking at the titles and I remember all my books until I come to number thirty-one. I tell him I can’t remember, even if I try hard, any book after the thirtieth, which I remember was Dethroned. He smiles and tells me to memorise the unfamiliar titles, which I do. It is so easy to memorise things here, so easy to communicate, so easy to be myself. I know I am home. He gives me instructions to climb down and when I stand in front of him, he smiles and says, “I will see you again. You can change the title, that’s your free will.”

I know I want to stay home, but he tells me I have to go and accomplish my task. He tells me I will come again when the time is right.

My feeling of lightness, calmness, and contentment is slowly disappearing as at that moment I am ready to argue my point, to express my wish to stay or to ask more questions. He just smiles and slowly fades as I wake up.

A recurring dream.

I have had this dream in some variations over many years. The dream comes once, or twice or sometimes even three times a year. Not in that exact sequence but quite similar, the feelings are the same, the scenes always crystal clear and communication very real, that more often than not after dreaming it, I stay awake wondering was it a real experience, was it more than just a dream. Every time when I awake after he tells me to go, I promise myself that I shall remember next time I am in the middle of a dream and ask him to answer a simple question, “Is there another Me out there in a parallel Universe?”

 There are times when I feel exhausted from writing, especially when finishing a big project like my latest novel Dethroned. I feel like I have given it all and now I should live my life just for myself, not as a vehicle for my characters, as I often feel like that. Just an instrument for someone’s experiences.

When I am determined to open another chapter of my life, to try some other things that are on my list, then I have a dream of coming back home, meeting a pleasant, gentle and wise man who greets me with the most sincere and warm smile, making me climb the ladder and checking where I have arrived and how many titles are still in the wings.

The place from the dream is a Library, and often I ask myself is there a universal library where all books are kept, the written ones and those which are waiting to be written? I have the feeling after such a dream that some of us are designated to remember and bring them “down”. When I am writing my books, when I encounter my characters, I actually remember them. There is a certain feeling that I had already had that experience somewhere else, that I read that book sometime before and that I was simply called to write it again.

Sometimes in the dream after climbing the ladder we sit down at the long wooden desk that runs along the tall windows and we discuss books, authors and various topics (our conversations are always telepathic). At the desk, I am allowed to ask him all sorts of questions. It appears that he, himself, is an enormous library as he has almost all the answers ready. Only on rare occasions, he thinks a little and informs me that this is something he does not have a prepared answer for he tells me, he needs to consult his Mentor and he shall have an answer next time I come.

I like the name Mentor, so I start calling him Mentor.

In some dreams, I am told to stick to the plan as if I had come to earth with a signed contract to do a job and I have been mentored and monitored, sometimes called “up” to be reminded or just to look at the library, sit there and replenish my inspiration and energy. When I write, or when I drive and daydream, I find myself talking to my Mentor asking for the answers to some of the harder questions. “Let go, it’ll come”, might be his suggestion, or it just pops from my own mind, but I do let go and the answer comes when I least expect it. A character appears when I think I can’t create such a character, or I find a group of people where someone was already waiting for me to pass the message where to go, what to do or has a book for me to read.

When I was very young, at the age of eighteen I wrote my first book. The reason I wrote that book was my firm conviction I had to write a sequel to a book I had written many, many years ago. I know it doesn’t sound serious and almost childish that I had a conviction I was called to finish a book that an author from a century before had written; even though the title was blurred, the author’s name was blurred somehow, I know which book I was assigned to write a sequel to. It was the book number twenty-one in the Library.

Here I am again, ready to write a novel upon entering the Library and consulting with the Mentor once again.

Everything has its meaning, every person has a meaningful place in our life and when we are not aware of that we lose our path, or heart, down the line we understand why, he tells me.

I ask him where does he reside, he smiles the way a wiser man smiles to a simple thought.

I ask, “Is there another Me out there in a parallel Universe?’ He smiles to anything that he doesn’t find suitable to answer in that moment.

Often, I hear that simple sentence of “Let go” and when I don’t, I think of justice and injustice, of meaning and of meaninglessness, of time and space, of existence, religions, wars and it goes on and on … a constant chatter … chatter that dims the message, but when I do let go, everything stops, the chatter stops and everything flows.

Please click HERE to find Dethroned on Amazon.


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