The full moon has certainly put an exciting twist or an end to my boredom.


The sudden flash of a woman being shown a room in the “mansion” as if she were becoming a new “resident”, this flash dream was successfully caught by my conscious but I let go in order to wake myself up.


    I can’t remember when my conscious registered the conversation in the Caribbean accented English, my initial reaction was that I was being “coached” to sound more “authentic” while talking about mining operations and rubber production – mentally the scenery turned jungle-like and I was able to witness the turn of events leading up to the changes that came due to the upheaval of command structure. A firefight was going on in the jungle – machine-gun and rifle fire rang out in the classic “Rat-a-tat” and “K-pow!” that most of us are familiar with in movies. My mind left that area and I woke up again.


    I wrote out most of the information in a Tweet, because I was excited to be allowed into the conscious portion of the “overworld” once again. This morning at 5:24 am local time, or 10:24 am in Turkey and Syria, a massive quake hit – I was asleep having the wildest dream that anyone could have (a bit of a stretch) – whether the two events were connected, remain to be seen.



I was headed downstairs into the underground, the events prior to my encounter in the staircase now forgotten. Vaguely I remembered walking with someone in to a building and getting the unmistakable odor of urine, the one I would attach to a vagrant or dark alleyway – the same smell I described to a coworker on Friday. As I descended the staircase, there was a figure at the bottom, a wide man or the distorted image of a man who seemed to widen with the physics of the dream changing the staircase from narrow to wide, fitting the next sequence in this scenario. Looking at the man turned away from me wearing a green army jacket and long blond shaggy hair (resembling the NYC graffiti cross-out king CAP one) this man’s stench assaulted me as I tried to reach the bottom landing. He was crazed, pulling out a wicked looking fold-up stiletto knife that had an emblem of white and red triangles and a circle for the finger to unfold the blade – the image presented itself several times so that I could get a better look. This would be important later.


Always important to note that as the image of each situation comes into view, that any past feelings or biases or fears become tested almost immediately. The man is taken aback by my intrusion into his domain. Normally it would be his inclination to attack anyone who entered this space. He falls back in what appears to be abject fear of me, as if I am a ghost or psychotic vision for him inside this realm – he panicked, in fear – falling to the floor curled up like a child, shivering and mumbling while holding the knife pointed in my direction jabbing the air with a lunging stab motion.  I was able to pass this quivering man, his fear of me entirely unfounded – unless my initial fear of him became mirrored and then attaching to him. Walking past, I was met with a mass of humanity that I knew all too well – Rush Hour, in the subway station. Something was wrong – I didn’t feel this off seeing a moving crowd since 9/11.

    I was able to focus on the people much better. Their faces, each one different, the clothing – these weren’t the usual shambling shadows that   m every crowd consisted of in the past. The thick of the action now, I could feel the crush of people and every bump and hustling person brush past me. My thought was to ask a few people what was going on, but another incident caught my attention as it played out. Several NYC policemen were carrying someone off, I couldn’t tell if the person was injured or under arrest. Desperately seeking to get to the bottom of things, I tried to avoid the people coming up from the train level, that’s when I saw THE MEN.


They were dressed in long wool overcoats and Fedora’s, holding the same knives as the vagrant. Unlike the stair-bum, they weren’t afraid of me. THEY were the commotion, like some dream-world version of the infamous Hat-Men, they slowly backed me away from entering the staircase to the train level. In this dream, powers weren’t available to me, or the moxie for physical combat – there was no fighting this crew. The weapons they brandished may have been the key to my reluctance – this weapon could end it all – in all of the realities. Not ready to sacrifice myself just yet for heroic curiosity, whatever was beyond the barrier of dream thugs would remain hidden from me. The feeling that there were more of these men coming out of the tunnel like a bunch of “Mr. Smith” clones from “The Matrix” made me retreat. I also had the feeling that they might not be the threat, but something else more sinister was coming – and they were trying to get everyone out in time.


*After I woke up, something didn’t add up for me – the extended knives looked like silver shards of glass – I had heard or read this before. Realizing that several UFO themes were now playing out – the “Hat Men” could have been the MiB’s and the knives might be the “Power Rods” often equated with the OTHERS during encounters. I explained on Twitter that this felt like a takeover of “The Dream Transit Network” the place that I believe dreams and reality crossover and clash. The great disaster halfway around the world could have been the catalyst, dreamers may have abruptly woken up when the events unfolded. The men may have been there to clear everyone out to prevent psychically hearing the horror filled anguish of the people who were now suffering. Were the now-dead dreamers trying to escape the earthquake through the tunnel?


The last part was conjecture on my part. I don’t have a clue.*


    The seriousness of the men made me try to escape to different stairwells going down to the train level at first, I wasn’t allowed to save anyone else who hadn’t gotten out, which leaves me with more questions than answers. I might be vain to pretend to have knowledge of something forbidden to the rest of the waking world, that would be an unforgivable crime. For now, I have to trick myself into not knowing – there may be consequences to face in the future.


The men had made their intentions quite clear; I wasn’t supposed to pass them without injury or worse. I got the message and retreated through the concourse level. There was another destination in mind that wasn’t really clear at first until recognizing that this was a station that I was familiar with that had stores inside, one I’ve dreamt of for years (based off of a real station in NYC) – I knew there was a comic shop around here. Glancing around the station lost again just like in the past, not able to find the comic book shop – the barber shop is there as always, recognizable by the familiar gate and striped pole above the door. Calming myself a bit, my focus was no longer on the threat of the men, things had begun to change. My mind is still focused on finding the right stairwell that leads to the comic shop… The commotion is behind me again. 

    I am somewhere caught between sleep and the dead, a crossroads where those who can manage pure lucidity can walk amongst and through the various dimensional realms. Why am I not welcome though? The men are almost done forcing the final stragglers upward, the staircases longer and wider again. My route changes – I’m trying to avoid conflict with the men their knives still pointed dangerously at me. With no other choice, I willfully leave, staring back up a staircase and begin to notice a subtle change as if the levels upward are closer to the dream-world. The concrete stairs were now covered in brown art paper, so that the children here could draw on everything. Children were scribbling in chalk, crayons and poster paint and pencil. This reminded me of the graffiti art show dream that was being held by the legends, the children were writing messages of encouragement and hope to each other whomever was able to escape.

    I begin to regard the child-like graffiti splashed over the paper, different colors and movement conveyed a feeling of floating in a three dimensional plane. The crunching of my feet on the paper brought me back to the “present.” Not being able to stop long enough to read the words the children wrote the press of emotions coming from below reminded me I had to move upward again. Memory plays an important part in the construction of the “Over-world” as I like to call it. Whatever my mind can contribute to the “Lucid” portion of the experience happens with an almost simultaneous precision, keeping the flow and narrative seamless; preventing any erroneous thought from interrupting. Something in the writing alerted me to look closer at the steps, some were broken and uneven, missing pieces of concrete under the paper.


Sure enough, I had seen stairs like this in the past before, if I had been better equipped to remember everything though, there might have been a coded sequence written into the stairs. The children had made the way up tricky and fun, like a game of Hop-Scotch as you made your way up – left, left, right and back. This was a mental message, so was the “Writing on the Walls” part of the game I was figuring out. Carefully making my way up the boobytrapped staircase, trying to avoid twisting my ankle on a broken step, I reached the top and the conditions changed again. Emerging from a doorway into the sunlight and back again at the bottom of another staircase, this was the exit to the Subway and none of the steps were broken. Outside was a large familiar avenue in lower Manhattan or the pseudo-equivalent. There is a problem with this memory, I have been travelling this portion of “Manhattan” for years in dreams – always becoming lost – this has to be that place. Not certain where I am, my first “challenge” is crossing the road, not sure if the driving force was the threat of the “Stiletto Men” or a subliminal idea implanted by the graffiti children. Stopping to judge the traffic flow that was on my left presumably heading South from North, this gave me some kind of bearing. A lone pedestrian Triangle separating the avenue was my first target, I took a youthful run across the moving cars as one does, and make it past the first turn lane easily. Someone behind me moves forward and I caution them not to go yet since the cars hadn’t stopped on the larger portion yet. The person doesn’t listen and makes it through the cars easily. A subtle change happens from the first time I emerge from the station – it’s already night, I must have been waiting for hours for traffic to let me through. Again, the night is suddenly day-time and I’m tired of waiting. Emboldened by the other person’s easy crossing I gear myself up to make my attempt. This was short-lived.


Misjudging the sequence of lights (an effect I forgot to mention, the lights changed on the avenue too quickly from stop to go) traffic started instantly, there were only milliseconds for me to decide to break into a run or step back to safety. There was a slim-to-none chance that I would make it if I had tried an advance. With no choice for me to go at all, a miracle came out of nowhere, in the guise of a ridiculously small blue van. Loaded with hippies or rabble-rousers, this Mini-Cooper sized car had turned the corner, jumping the curb into the flow of traffic and effectively stopping every car. The symphony of screeching tires were accompanied by blaring car horns, luckily no one crashed. The wild-bunch of characters whopping it up inside were led by the driver who expertly kept the car in gear, wheels spinning out moving side to side challenging anyone to cross his path. He was an auburn-haired guy with an epic beard looking like Dan Haggarty of “Grizzly Addams” fame. He sounded like a man possessed yelling at his buddies “Hang on Boys!” deftly shifting gears – regaining traction on the road surface. This Daredevil wasn’t through. Lurching forward, he put the car into an ever-widening series of donuts on the road, faster and faster, all the while hollering a victorious “WAAAA-HOOO!” punctuated by fist pumps skyward, with a left hand the size of a ham. Finding my chance to cross while I got the assist, I felt compelled to wave and thank my newfound Lucid friend. He was too caught up in his own Hi-Jinks to notice me anyway. This definitely was an interruption on my behalf, as I bounded across and finally stepped on the curb, the car ended the donut and sped off Southward, the traffic began chasing him at the previous speeds. I hurried along the sidewalk arriving at an interesting place.


The theme of the pathway in front of me was bricks, laid out in herringbone patterns, the sides were lined with planter boxes also constructed of brick that contained trees. Something that would have completed the look but was curiously missing were benches or people. A feeling of serenity came over me – like familiarity and I began to think of an old brick schoolhouse and what it would look like next to this walkway. This though might have been implanted by the children or maybe even the natural dream process that answered the question “What comes next?” By the mere intention of the thought, a school appeared at the end of the block on my right side with a proper black wrought-iron fencing, a mostly modern building, the entrance was just ahead. Entering the diagonal walkway up to the plexiglass doors and inside, the lobby was nicely carpeted in industrial squares with patterns. The overall feeling was that class was in session. Reception was empty and quiet, maybe they stepped away for a second. As soon as the outside doors closed behind me, the sounds evaporated, sucked in by the coziness of the atmosphere. The school felt like an Academy or a learning center, where children could get specialized and expensive alternative curriculum geared towards higher education. The muffled sounds of a small group could be heard just inside the first classroom off to my right past the reception. I could make out the silhouettes of several children sitting in a circle on the floor through smoke-frosted plexiglass wall that gave the inside ample enough light from the outside as well as some muted privacy. Entering the room, not really sure why I was compelled to check in with these kids – who were totally engrossed in quite contemplative discourse. A back-and-forth conversation engaged the two younger ones. Somehow, I couldn’t retain the meaning of what they spoke about, there was no teacher involved. The children were in control. A thought occurred to me – “Had the children brought me here?” I began to suspect that these children were connected to the ones making art on the subway stairs. One of the children was older, just shy of twelve – she looked familiar like an older version of one of the children on the stairs…


The three of them were all blond and “ghostly” pale, not albino so as not to alert me if “Tricky” was there. The older girl didn’t pay any attention to the others and it seemed strange to me that none of the children acknowledged my presence. I may have entered the space in “spirit-form” just as an observer again. The most talkative of the four total children was the boy. There were two other girls, one about his age and another younger one who would sometimes speak or nod in agreement. They kept the conversation between themselves, not because they were excluding the older child, she may have also been there in “spirit.” I didn’t know what to believe at this point. It’s as if she knew my powers of observation and lucidity weren’t strong enough to tell who was in spirit or who was just another dream actor. Her face was almost telling me what I wanted to know, a smug whimsical air of not caring, leaning back on locked-out arms – just waiting for me to catch up and realize that she was my equal or better. She looked past and through me with a faraway gaze, wryly smirking for effect. Concealing her ruse as if the banter between the children was too immature for her taste, and her boredom couldn’t contain her disdain. The children were prodigy-level from what I could tell from their conversation so this older child must not understand them either.


Asking myself or no one in particular “What is the name of this school?” My head was immediately drawn upward to visualize a three-dimensional representation of “YMCA” on the wall. Was this a cosmic joke perhaps? I mouthed the letters and heard “YMCA” in a voice that that hadn’t already spoken in the room. The three children still engaged with each other, I look over again at the older girl trying desperately to figure her out – my mind reached out, trying to probe this portion of the dream seeking the core of whatever deception was playing out. I scanned her face closely like a mini-drone – I had managed to stop time, stepping out of the scene. The texture of her skin came into full view, like a hyper-realistic painting over twelve foot high. My proximity to her caused an uncomfortable change in me – I felt younger all of a sudden and slightly flushed with attraction. This wasn’t good. She could see me, I finally caught her attention, right at the moment she wanted – she was toying with me the whole time, knowing that my aversion to being “attracted” to her would weaken my “overworld” powers further. Panicking, I remembered where I had seen her – she was one of the artists from the subway station art display and had chosen me for her little “Game.”


She put me on “Pause” and this heightened my panic even further, much more than the stiletto hat men, or the smelly vagrant. My thoughts raced, the attraction was getting stronger, and I wanted to escape this paralysis effect unless I become one of her “Dolls.” The other children were now looking dead at me, as if I were a new kid who would join their group – the pre-teen had exposed my spirit-form to show me off to my new “friends” – the dream faded out in the school room. 

I had broken her grip – or she let me go.

By virtue of writing an off-the-cuff sentence, I have chosen a title for my book: 

“Between Sleep and the Dead”

A Dream Diary

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Gabe Miranda lives a stones throw from uptown Charlotte, enjoys Star gazing and creating chaos on Twitter. Currently working on editing diary posts to self publish his first book.