This is how we dream:
Our eyes half shut, our arms crossed, fingers notched to ribs. Breath warm and slow.
When we arrive at the bright places where nothing moves, then we know we are dreaming. If we see a door we walk through it; if a window presents itself we jump. We run while the world around us stands still. Streams don’t trickle, wind does not gust. We hurl forward to stave off the fuse that threatens to blow us back to the conscious world. To look back is to wake up.
There are four stages to every successful dream.
All Tantrin dream the same way. They find an empty room or a meadow or a rooftop, somewhere without distractions. They sit and close their eyes and picture themselves exactly where they are, seated in the pose they are seated in, eyes closed, imagining. Once they’ve replicated their posture and surroundings in their imagination with as much detail as possible, they then go about imagining the imagined self also imagining themselves in their precise setting and state of self-imagination. And again with that imagined self. This process goes on as you’d expect, continuing until the original Tantrin has lost track of her original point of view, until she can’t tell which iteration was the prime imaginer. So the thread of meditation streams off infinitely in two directions, curving with natural perspective until the chain of Akshobhyas or Vairocanas or whoever the dreamer is resembles a mandala of consciousness. As attention flows along the chain, it amplifies each iteration sequentially, distorting the line into a sine wave by which the image vibrates into music. At first the song is chaotic and expansive but presently converges onto a single entity occupying a single space. The remaining copies collapse back into the physical form and the dreamer opens her eyes.