White Noise

"What do you see?"
At this point it was the closest he could come to asking me what I felt, the question I came here for. But as I enter into a deeper level of hypnosis, I see all kinds of things arise out of the white noise and disappear into it again, and none of them have anything to do with each other. It's disease of the age: everything's going so fast that my consciousness has faded into a motion blur.
"I see a tornado in which all possible things are all jumbled together in the dust."
"Just let it blow over, and look at it from a distance. Can you see the tornado moving away in the distance?"
"Yes, it's in a little suburban area, a really backward looking place, a maze of dead ends in the middle of nowhere, boring. After all it's good riddance."
"Is there much left of it?"
"A few walls. What's the use, they'll just rebuild their tidy tiny lives again. They look like legos, like the village is a scale model. I need to get out of here."
"When you zoom out, what do you see?"
"I see you and me looking onto the scale model."
"You turn around. What do you see?"
"We're in a house in the scale model again. The tornado is still there outside."
At feeling my frustration a malice overcame him, perhaps having passed on from me.
"The tornado is heading towards the house. It rips off the roof, and the floor collapses beneath you into a hole in the ground. When you land on your feet, where are you?"
"In a dungeon. There's a table and chair, and a reading lamp. And an open book."
"You take the book, close it and look at the front. What does the title say?" It's impossible to read books in dreams or hypnosis, so the title will have to do.
"It says 'The Holy Bible' in gold on green."
"What feelings do you have about this object?"
"I've already fed it to the flame of the lamp." So like me — still fast forwarding.
"A draft takes the smoke into a sudden direction. Where does it go?"
"Further down a dark hall."
"You go down this hall. What do you see at the end?"
"Hay bales in a stable lit by electric lighting at night. Outside there's forest around the stable, and a starry sky. I'm far away from cities."
"Do you see the house of the owners?"
"Yes, but it's dark… the stable is built at the base of a long cliff. They're the ones who dug the shaft beneath the house. They dug me out of my prison."
"Can you go towards the house?"
"I don't want to. I'm afraid it'll be another fake, a house without a home."
"You know who's inside, don't you?"
"Of course I do. So we're back here again. Still the same old repetition."
"That's what a person is, a repetition of their own renewal of life. Try to step towards the house. It'll be fine."
"No, if I come closer it begins to look more like one of the houses up the cliff, bourgeois. I'm afraid I'll have to destroy this one as well. I need to find them outside or else dead." He realizes houses in my dream are a symbol of imprisonment.
"Let happen what must. The blows away into dust before your eyes. What do you see?"
"I see them… cupping their unadjusted eyes from the darkness."