EXCERPTS FROM THE DREAM JOURNAL

A great number of artists, especially surrealists like Dalí, Magritte, and de Chirico, found inspiration for their art in dreams. Didn’t van Gogh become known for his words, “I dream my paintings, then I paint my dreams”? Even today, artists discover an abundance of ideas in the world of dreams and the unconscious, evoking elements and emotions that have left a lasting impression on them—often recreating identical copies of what was presented to them in dreams, sometimes clearly, sometimes veiled in mist and symbolism.

And indeed, there seems to be a thread, a trace, a pattern in dreams. I feel there is something insufficiently explored, something on the tip of our tongues, a secret in plain sight. Yet, we continue to live as if blind, unwilling to know, forgetting everything. Has it ever happened to you, for instance, that you dream of reading or speaking words in a language you have never heard before? And even if you managed to remember fragments, you could never decipher them upon waking. It remains unclear whether these were mere random gibberish, which seems like a less desirable and probable option to me, or whether it was a rare and incredible connection to a collective divine consciousness—a version I would much rather believe in. A connection to a source overflowing with unimaginable knowledge, yet one that we, in our physical bodies, can access only in fragments, as if through a straw—briefly, vaguely, sparingly, and only in dreams.

I feel that if we were able to remember and keep a dream journal throughout our lives—especially artists, but also anyone open to insights that are not necessarily logical or seemingly meaningful—we would reach some interesting and original discoveries. Perhaps we would even achieve a deeper connection, understanding, and empathy between ourselves and others, as well as within ourselves. Of course, a portion of our dreams would be a mere recycling of our daily experiences, pre-written scripts from books, movies, and series we consumed that day. But the rest—the rest is valuable. The rest proves that there are visionaries among us, prophets, those under the protection of guardian angels, the tormented, the warned, but also the saved. I long for that enigma, that mystery, for what is unquestionably accepted. Artists, in particular, have a duty not to take such dreams lightly—not to let them fade into oblivion, remain unspoken, unseen, or unrecorded.

This unconscious realm, as interpreted by psychology and astrology in ways we may never fully comprehend, shapes our lives, choices, art, and love, guiding our existence. This is why we must, as much as possible, heed the delicate thread that whispers to us only in the world of dreams—warning us, offering glimpses into what was and is yet to become our physical reality.

In the past few years, since I began painting intensely—and even before that, during moments of intense restlessness that often consumed me—I started keeping a dream journal. I record my dreams whenever I manage to remember them, whenever they seem symbolic, reflecting something potentially significant—something strange yet familiar, intriguing and worthy of contemplation, inspiring for my paintings and writing. For all these reasons, I wish for dream journaling to become a normalized daily practice, especially among creators. That we may share them and listen to something similar to whispers of those who are no longer with us—those who, in these fleeting moments, can still reach out, warn, and protect us.

Below, I am sharing a few excerpts from my dream journal. I must admit, it is not easy to share them, but for the sake of what I have expressed above, I find it necessary—those dreams that have left the deepest mark on me, those I believe were a reflection of something greater and beyond imagination, and at times, of my own dormant self, reminding me to question my freedom and choices.

"Live, Beautiful Being, Live!"

That evening, I had a dream so beautiful that it seems like everyone is granted just one such dream in their lifetime. Until now, I have never spoken of it to anyone.

I felt as if I had stepped onto the other side, where no limitations exist, where everything is familiar even though I have no memory of ever being there, no recollection of the ones surrounding me. Yet, they knew me. Somehow, I already knew that they deeply loved me and had been waiting for me patiently. I feel that my dream resembled the dream of someone who had crossed over to that other, unknown realm—someone who no longer breathes. Often, I have wondered afterward how it was possible that I glimpsed into that world while still breathing, without any danger, peering beneath the veil where those who are no longer here reside. Perhaps our hearts don’t have to stop beating for us to experience a fragment of what awaits us there… Of course, it was just a dream. But what a dream! A dream that had the effect of the sweetest melody, like a drug that lingers for days, a call back to something that feels like home—a home you have surely never had on this Earth, no matter how fortunate you may have been.

That night, I dreamt that I was floating in a dim twilight, and all around me, in a circle, there were feminine faces levitating. Perhaps they had neither faced nor bodies, yet I knew they were there, gathered around me for my sake. There were many of them, but I recognized only one—the one who had recently left this world. She was among them. Though I didn’t know who all of them were, I knew they meant me well, that they were there for me, and that they were so beautiful, so happy, radiating something that I, too, could feel. Oh, how I wish I could experience that again without having to artificially summon that indescribable sensation.

In the center of the darkness, there was a message—inside a bottle, exactly as classic messages in bottles always appear. From within it, a light glowed, a flame of sorts, yet one that did not harm the message written on the yellowish-white paper. The message was clear, penned in a handwriting so carefully shaped that it seemed as though the author had all the time in this or any other world at their disposal. It was written with the meticulousness of a diligent first-grader. The message was unmistakable, and I will never forget it as long as I live. There were no words more comforting than these, nor will there ever be.

It read: “Live, beautiful being, live!”

When I read it, I felt it reflected everything I had only sensed before—that somewhere, someone recognizes my efforts and the goodness within me, even when it is not so obvious, even when it is hidden beneath anger, aggression, and distrust. Someone was reaching out to me, trying to console me, even though they could not do so physically. This realization filled me with immense hope.

It was a glimpse into something so vast, so inexplicable, yet so peaceful and beautiful—so well-hidden that ever since, I keep thinking: if only I could share it, whether through words or painting, if only others could feel it too. Their own messages, meant for them by their guardian angels. That energy, that complete sense of peace—how comforting, easy, and meaningful life would feel to them. How I wish that feeling, that magical elixir, could have lasted longer. And yet, simply reliving this dream brings me great joy, along with the honor of having had such a visit.

Perhaps one day, I will succeed in capturing on canvas this indescribable, yet most powerful and healing energy.

The Well

Dear journal, I dreamed that I was running so fast it felt like I was leaping over entire cities and countries, moving so swiftly, effortlessly, and quickly that no one could ever catch me—not even the one who had been chasing me at the beginning of the dream. I outran that someone and didn’t look back.

In the next moment, I found myself in a dense forest. I finally stopped and noticed a wide, dark opening on the ground nearby, gaping like a massive well. A fear began to overtake me—a fear that I must not get too close to it, a fear that if I did, I might force myself to jump into it simply by being nearby. I had to stay away. I warned myself not to approach.

Then I noticed I wasn’t alone in the forest. Not far from the well, I saw a figure draped in a white robe with a hood over their head. The figure seemed to be floating around the well, appearing hypnotized by the abyss below. They were staring down into it and didn’t react to me—they didn’t even notice me. The figure seemed resolved, certain, their eyes fixed on the abyss, panic gripped me as I realized they were preparing to jump. No, I didn’t want to see it. No, they mustn’t do it. They won’t. I almost screamed, “Don’t!” But without hesitation, the figure did exactly that. They fell suddenly into the darkness and simply disappeared.

That’s when I realized that the figure in white, the one who had just jumped, had my face—that I had been watching myself the entire time.

The Forest Nymph

We never remember the beginning of dreams, do we? I don’t know how this one began, but what I do remember is sitting in the passenger seat of a car, looking at my reflection in a small mirror in front of me. I felt something on my face and started peeling off small leaves from my forehead. They looked exactly like leaves from various trees—yellow, reddish, green—colors of early autumn.

Suddenly, as I removed the leaves, I began noticing that the deep wrinkles on my forehead were disappearing. Slowly, my skin became smooth, shiny, and pale, completely free of lines. Flowers began sprouting from my face and hair. Nothing in the dream felt strange—on the contrary, I thought it was perfectly logical, expected even. Of course, I had planted them.

Then, I started noticing red and white blossoms blooming in the mirror. At that moment, I began to worry that something might be strange. But a few moments later, I accepted myself as I was. I looked at my hands—they were covered in strange symbols, tattoos that spanned my palms and seemed impossible to remove. I wondered to myself, Am I turning into some kind of nymph, a strange forest creature? Will I stay like this? Will others see me this way?

The Dying Butterfly

This was an exceptionally short dream fragment, but it stayed with me because it was so pleasant and uplifting. I’m not someone who dreams of butterflies often, so this one felt particularly significant, and I wrote it down as soon as I woke up in the night, still under its impression.

On a cold February night, I dreamed of a delicate, fragile butterfly with fluorescent pink wings, translucent but glowing from within. I somehow knew that in that very moment, as I watched, it was dying. Its soul was rising peacefully and magnificently before me. And in that moment, I felt happy and privileged to witness it all.

I didn’t feel that the moment was sad—in fact, it seemed natural, as though the butterfly was eager to be free of its earthly yet heavy, wings. That night, I woke up and, likely for this reason, remembered the dream. I glanced at my phone and saw the time: 4:04 a.m.

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At the end, I’d love to hear about your dreams. Do you remember and write them down? Do some of us dream similar dreams, and do we sometimes seek answers, guidance, or even encounters with those who are no longer with us in them? And perhaps precisely within them you will find an unexpected solution, encouragement, reminder, or an idea that otherwise escapes you.