That door cannot be locked no matter what.
Especially when the bad guy is about to arrive—that moment when the air becomes stagnant and sticky. I used the table to support it, the chair to support it, and used all my strength to move the cabinet block. None of this helps, there is always a gap in the door that cannot be blocked. Just a dark, breathing gap. "They" seeped in through this gap.
First, in the dream: in the wilderness, two snakes stood upright on their hind limbs, looking at me with cold and scrutinizing eyes across the withered grass; in the white toilet, I fell into an embarrassing dilemma that I couldn't handle; gunfire exploded behind my head, and I ran on the edge of the cliff, and every step felt like stepping on cotton.
Then came reality: everything I had worked so hard for began to "dissolve" silently, like a sandcastle soaked in rain. And that dazzling new colleague always happens to be standing in the center of the spotlight, easily grabbing everything in the past.
I see. My dreams are warning letters written in metaphors. Every absurd scene is a rusty key.
To survive this silent hunt, I must learn to be the interpreter of my own dreams. I have to turn the key before the next "gunshot", even if there is that person standing behind the door - the version of myself that I still don't want to recognize, full of shame and fear.
Seeing yourself and loving yourself starts from a dream.
Purpose: Treat the process of recording and analyzing dreams as a pious pilgrimage, an adventure into the unknown self, and a dialogue with the subconscious.