The Transformed Self

The tremor intensified, shaking the surface of primordial glass. Marco felt no panic. He felt a quiet certainty: the journey into the realm of transcendence had reached a pause. The cosmic globes retreated into the darkness, the figure of light dissolved into an echo of wisdom, and the air grew dense, heavy, familiar. The return to ordinary perception was gradual and inevitable, like re-emerging from the ocean's depths toward the sunlit surface. The dream experience released him with a gentleness that was, in itself, part of its final lesson.

When he opened his eyes, the grey of his room returned. This time, it wasn't an anonymous hue. It was a silent mosaic that held all the colors of the landscapes he had traversed: the salt desert, cobalt skies, and the depth of obsidian. The bare, anonymous walls now resonated with the infinite surfaces of the mirrors. The stack of books on the nightstand, once a disorganized pile of paper, appeared as a labyrinth of stories, both collective and personal. Marco rose slowly, feeling the weight of his body with a new, strange awareness. His arms, his legs, were the vehicle of an experience that transcended the physical. Every movement was a choice, every breath an act of will. He was no longer an automaton, but a Self in command of his own ship.

He walked to the window. The rain tapping against the glass was just water, but he heard in it the sound of the tears and joys of the past pouring into the present. The outside world was no longer a solid, unquestionable reality. It was a complex symphony of symbols. Passersby hurrying under their umbrellas were no longer an indistinct mass, but a collection of Selves, each with its own inner labyrinth, its own salt desert, its own shattered mirrors. The veil that had lifted in the dream was now transparent in his waking state. Marco saw the world for what it was and for what it symbolized, for the echo of the dream that resonated in every detail of his life. Life itself had become a constant translation, an uninterrupted interpretation.

This new perception, however, wasn't a simple gift. It was a burden. The weight of every gesture, every word, was felt with a new, almost overwhelming responsibility. The freedom he sought in the dream wasn't an escape. It was a painful integration, the freedom to consciously choose his own path, knowing that his own truth existed, fragmented and whole. Massification and heteronomy were no longer abstract concepts. They manifested in a tangible, almost grotesque way in billboards that promised illusory happiness, in shop windows with identical clothes, in the tired and distracted faces of those around him. Every face, every object, was a call to conformity, a silent voice inviting him to return to comfortable anonymity.

A wave of nostalgia swept over him, but not for the past. It was a nostalgia for the clarity of the dream, for the incontestable logic of that inner world. There, the figures of the shadow and of transcendence had been pure, clear, unequivocal entities. Here, in reality, they were mixed, dirty, and difficult to distinguish. His mind sought distinction; his heart yearned for transparency. Marco felt like a musician who had just heard the most sublime melody and now had to return to playing a simpler score, with the memory of that music that never fades. The dissonance between his new awareness and external reality was almost unbearable, an open wound that could only be healed with understanding.

It was then that an insignificant detail struck him. On his desk, a cup of coffee left the night before was there, half-full, with the liquid now cold and thick. In an instant of pure and inexplicable lucidity, Marco saw beyond the object. He saw the infinite cycle of day and night, the invisible work of the barista, the time that had stopped in that moment, and the desire to stay awake that the cup represented. He saw the Self who had left that cup and the Self who was looking at it now, an experience that connected him to himself and to the entire universe at once. It was not a hallucination. It was a vision, a comprehension that manifested with the same force and clarity as a symbol in a dream. The cup was a portal, a fragment of existence that contained within it the history of the world.

Marco had found the key to navigate this new reality. The journey was not over. He hadn't returned home; he had transformed it into a new canvas, a new stage for exploration. His awakening was not a return, but an evolution, a leap in consciousness. His room was no longer a prison, but a starting point. The outside world was not an alien entity; it was a continuation of his own inner world. With a sense of excitement mixed with a deep calm, Marco realized that his flight had just begun, and he would do it with his eyes open.

The dream journey had just become a waking matter.

Per l’ elaborazione di parti del contenuto è stato utilizzato l’ ausilio dell’AI Gemini.

Luca.