973-Eht-Namuh-973.com The Oracle Forum

I decided to register tonight for whatever reasons. I don't truly know how or why I ended up here, and for whatever reason I don't care. I've spent about 2 weeks now ghosting about the forums and a lot of these things make no sense to me, mind you I'm still young, but there seems to be quite the collection of knowledge and wisdom here. I will apologize beforehand, I personally have no religious beliefs or tendancies. I've been curious about life since I was old enough to talk, and a lot of questions I've had have been answered here in the last two weeks in strange ways.

So, I'll introduce myself to you guys. I'm young, 21 to be exact, as I mentioned. I'm a felon, going through the correctional phases the government has placed for me, and I believe it's doing me a lot of good. Since my beginning teenage years I've wanted to make a change and I've thirsted, greedily until recently mind you, for knowledge. I try to read everything I can, and understand it on a level that I think the majority of the population doesn't or cant, and I take deep pride in this.

Now my question. Not too long ago, I had suffered the most recent of my concussions. Since that day I've seemed to notice that I count things. I count how many times a tire spins on a car that drives by, being a gamer, I count the amount of shots coming from automatic rifles. I count how many times people use a certain collection of words over the period of time that I'm having a conversation with them. Why do I do this, and what does it mean for me?

Next question. At night while I'm laying and staring at the ceiling, I fall into what's known as sleep paralysis I believe. Due to reading up on this I found that this is the gateway to one of two things, lucid dreaming, or the ethereal realm if you will. I read a post on here not long ago that I related to, except some things were left out. After practicing this "lucid dreaming" for months now, I find myself losing my grasp on what's real and what I'm dreaming. I can alter my dreams to see and do what I want in these episodes, but I loop myself into a thought that my life is a dream I'm creating. This worries me at times because I don't know whether to take what's going on seriously or not, because I can't differentiate real from dream. Is there a practice someone here might know to direct me away from these thoughts, or away from the addiction with the dreaming that I have.

Another note on the sleep paralysis. The reason I looked it up is that I originally had thought I had a medical condition. Paired with my paralysis episode, I hear, or hallucinate, an extremely loud noise. It gets loud enough that it seems my head may explode, and it worried me to the point of almost seeking professional help because I would jolt myself out of the paralysis as if I was having a night terror, heart rate increases and I'm sweating, and this has been happening since I was 15 or so. Now that I've learned what this lead to, and what it was capable of, I find myself chasing that noise. But why does it happen to me? It still scares me to the point of almost screaming myself out of paralysis, but I chase it. I've yet to learn how to control when the paralysis will come over me, it just happens frequently, 3 to 6 nights a week. I very often find myself being within the dream I'm creating for days or sometimes weeks overnight. Is this misconstrued sense of time weird? Why does it take me only 8 hours to dream a scenario that in my real life would be played out over 4 days?

Sorry guys, it's late, and my minds wandering. Thanks for any answers you can provide, and thanks for all the answers you have provided. I look forward to any and all the knowledge I will gain from you, and I appreciate your willingness to share such a wealth.

Wonderful, I can finally be of help to someone. The answer to the last question is that people don't always dream chronologically. When one is dreaming, he may often skip several hours ahead in the dream. I once had a dream that plays through time, ending when I become 84 and die, later, I noticed my sleep was only 6 hours and had indeed felt like it was for the decades my dream suggested. As for not knowing whether or not your whole life is a dream, open a book or look at a clock. The book will be nonesense as the brain cannot create a whole new long text for a dream, it simply has not the power. If you look at a clock, the brain cannot replicate the accuracy of a clock and therefore it would tick very oddly, sometimes even backwards or not at all. The sound you experience in your head as you lay is a pyschological ailment that is only slightly uncommon. Anxiety can cause it which is terrible as one may begin to fear sleeping due to the noise which can cause more anxiety and obviously would then experience the noise more.

I hope I helped
With Loving Welcoming, Nazheek.

Thanks nazheek. I apologize for taking such a long time to reply, but life happens. I tried out some the exercises you mentions while I was cobciously aware that I was in a dream state. I have interesting results with the book. I was able to read it, and interestingly enough the pages I attempted to read were all direct printed poetry from Robert Frost. Frost happens to be one of my favorite poets, and I have a lot of his writing memorized, but I found it odd that the book I picked was filled with his writing, and that I could read it anyways. Nonetheless, the clock exercise worked flawlessy. The second hand was repeatedly ticking and the minute hand never moved, it had a strange rythm that I assume could be related to Morse code (correct spelling?) I'll inform you of any other tries with the book, but for now I'll leave you a favorite of mine that Frost wrote.

One misty evening, one another's guide, 
We two were groping down a Malvern side 
The last wet fields and dripping hedges home. 
There came a moment of confusing lights, 
Such as according to belief in Rome 
Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights 
Before the fragments of a former sun 
Could concentrate anew and rise as one. 
Light was a paste of pigment in our eyes. 
And then there was a moon and then a scene 
So watery as to seem submarine; 
In which we two stood saturated, drowned. 
The clover-mingled rowan on the ground 
Had taken all the water it could as dew, 
And still the air was saturated too, 
Its airy pressure turned to water weight. 
Then a small rainbow like a trellis gate, 
A very small moon-made prismatic bow, 
Stood closely over us through which to go. 
And then we were vouchsafed a miracle 
That never yet to other two befell 
And I alone of us have lived to tell. 
A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent, 
Instead of moving with us as we went 
To keep the pots of gold from being found,
It lifted from its dewy pediment 
Its two mote colored ends 
And gathered them together in a ring. 
And we stood in it softly circled round 
From all division time or foe can bring 
In a relation of elected friends.

Frost, Iris by Night.

Good afternoon Jaglada, sorry for the late welcome, but welcome anyway and many thanks for a flurry of mind-turning posts. You have a good way with words, perhaps once you re-emerge into the freedom of familiar streets, fresh air and an unimpeded view of the future you might put that talent to good use, or even before that point, in between roles you have us.

I often found that the dream gateway had opened as in staring at the ceiling but really partially asleep, sleeping in a place where I'd rather not be. Example lying in bed in a rented flat in Saudi Arabia, working in let us say a 'difficult' environment, best loved ones in another country, whom I would much rather be spending my time with. That action of staring at the ceiling cause us to enter into some kind of meditation state without a mantra or if you will a semi-trance. At this point you may find that you have almost handcrafted your dreams i.e. molded what you expect to dream about, not always erring toward the pleasant.

But as Nakheek says dreams are not necessarily triggered in chronological order, which may give a jumbled effect which can be quite disturbing but is no cause for alarm. Also substance abuse either alcohol or drugs, especially in withdrawal (which can take months) often precipitates a rolling newsreel of dream images which accentuates the jumbling effect, until absolute physiological detox has occurred.

Anyway, we appreciate the verse of Robert Frost the man was a laureate among poets, and I recommend all yee that read here to explore his work with vigour.

In return I'll give you a spot of Dylan Thomas, the opening of Under Milk Wood, First Voice:
'To begin at the beginning:

It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and- rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrogered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing.

Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep.

And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-before- dawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.

Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dewfall, starfall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.

Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, suckling mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's lofts like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is to-night in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.

Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding though the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes.

Come closer now.

Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see in the blinded bedrooms, the combs and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing, dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.

From where you are, you can hear their dreams.

Captain Cat, the retired, blind seacaptain, asleep in his bunk in the seashelled, ship-in-bottled, shipshape best cabin of Schooner House dreams of..'

Yours Redbeck

Thanks for the reply Redbeck. I'm flattered that you commented on my writing, I've absolutely looked into making a career of it. That idea has fell short when my want for perfection in my writing grew too strong and I feel as though my writing is not good enough anymore. Nonetheless, this little piece of writing you shared is jaw dropping to say the least. I've never read anything that seems to piece together so well with the amount of syllables used. It's almost mind blowing how fun it is to read aloud, and just that I did.

I'm curious as to what you mean by re-emerging into familiar streets. Perhaps finding myself? I've yet to do that. I'm still young yet, and have a lot to learn. Next year around this time I'm following through with one of my dreams and pursuing a career in flight. Learning to fly a helicopter is one of the final milestones I feel as though I can hit with my current limitations. It will probably be the death of me, but I'll sure be smiling.

I'm curious to know how a man can accumulate so much knowledge such as yourself. I often joke and say things such as "I'm losing my eye sight and hearing so I have more brain power to memorize things." I know this not to be true, but it makes me feel better about my condition. I forget the exact term but it's somewhere along the lines of ocular distrophy. Some parts of my eye are deteriorating at a rapid rate. I do some exercises and try to slow it but I'm undeniably be blind by the age of 50 I'm told. I'm rambling, it's just nice to have a place to speak my mind and not be looked at like I'm crazy. It seems that if somebody is not capable of understanding your thought process then you're made out to be the one that's not intelligent. Nonetheless, thanks for the welcome, thanks for the compliment, and a thanks in advance for the wisdom and knowledge I will gain from you in times to come.

Hi Matt Im kinda/sorta new here too, but its always nice to meet another Jen/Dawn fan.
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