Freeing of the shadows

Every night, I am thrust into the centre of an immense, bustling city square surrounded by towering buildings with faceless grotesques. The dense, homogenous crowd speed around each individual had no distinguishable features. Despite the busyness, an eerie silence pervades the city. There is a palpable sense of isolation amidst the throng, not unlike the awkwardness of visiting a place for the first time. Still, even after countless visits here, I do not belong. However, it is only myself who felt these types of emotions. The crowd moved without sentiment, without a trace of concern. Whenever I was overcome with naivety, I would yell for help, but my voice was always engulfed by the oppressive silence maintained within the anonymous mass.  

The crowd maintains a suffocating closeness as they scamper through the city. I then become acutely aware of the sensation of being watched and turn to look. The figure glancing at me halts and stares back. Never look at them! That I know, you never look! I instantly stared at the ground, shivering. The shadow should carry on. 1...2...3 breathe... It will be soon over.   

The buildings enclosing the concrete prison grow taller and more oppressive every time I return, their reflective windows multiplying and darkening, creating an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Each attempt to escape the square is thwarted by the mass, which subtly shifts to block my path, guiding me back to the epicentre, where the feeling of exposure and vulnerability intensifies. I had pushed through the crowd before, but after running straight, I somehow ended up back in the middle.   

In this surreal ordeal, I always discover a small, solitary figure standing apart from the crowd, like this figure had been abandoned. Unlike the others, this figure seems fully conscious and able to express emotion, yet its face is still shrouded in shadow. I am compelled to touch this figure, believing they hold the key to understanding the nightmare. However, every step towards them feels like wading through viscous, invisible molasses, and the figure remains slightly out of reach. Within a moment of meeting the solitary boy, I awake.  

'Hmm. That certainly is interesting.' 

My therapist had a way with words. I had just bled my soul dry, and it was interesting. Well, I guess that is something; at least I am not boring. I fell silent as I looked down, staring at his shoes under the desk.  

Noting we still had five minutes left, he made a last-ditch attempt to encourage me to fill the time. 'So... you described how they look, but what are the shadows like?'

'They only act on impulse; they do not calculate others' responses, zero theory of mind; if those monsters see something they want, they take it without considering repercussions. I still have yet to see a single clock, yet everyone appears late. I now postpone sleep, which adds to my anxiety; I can't confront hours of being stuck at their mercy. I know I am dreaming while there, but I feel they can hurt me, dream or not. In Jungian psychology, the shadow must be incorporated into the self. Yet, here, it has been cut off and runs free. Now, imagine our own shadow; all our thoughts or actions we deem unacceptable are now necessary and imperative to belong. No need to reconcile with morality or ethical considerations. Only embrace the dark side as truth.'   

'I'm afraid we are out of time, Oliver; you must remember you cannot be hurt in your dream; I suggest you go to sleep on a positive thought and carry that optimism into your dreams. Please return soon, Oliver.'   

I left the therapist's room disheartened. My head so low to the ground it was as if I were to burrow underneath, and then a soft voice said, 'Sir.' I glanced over to a pretty girl with hair tied in a bob, no makeup, decorated only with a warm smile.  

I replied, 'Hello?' 

'How is everything? You looked better on the way in? She joked whilst inquiring softly.'  

'I feel lost in these strange dreams; if I'm honest, I now feel lost while awake. People presume I'm losing my mind. I can see their judging stares.'  The art of small talk was lost on me; I needed help.

'If it is answers outside of the normal, you are seeking, phone this number.'  

The card read Dr. Branberry. I said I would and reluctantly left as I craved more comforting words from this kind soul. The receptionist answered a call, giving me no alternative but to slowly leave. I dialled the number and arranged a visit for later that day.   

Dr. Branberry's office was in an inconspicuous building at the edge of town, far removed from the bustling city centre that haunted my nights. As I approached the door, a sense of foreboding washed over me, the kind that one feels when standing on the precipice of an unsettling revelation.  

The door creaked open, and I was greeted by a dimly lit room, the air heavy with the scent of old books and incense. Dr Branberry, an elderly man with piercing eyes that seemed to bore into the depths of one's soul, sat behind an antique desk cluttered with papers and peculiar artefacts. He motioned for me to sit without a word.  

I took a seat, the leather chair cold and unyielding. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke, his voice a low, resonant whisper.  

'So you met my granddaughter?'

'I assume he means who I think erm... yes?'

'Very well Oliver, tell me about these dreams.'  

I recounted my experiences in the silent crowd, the faceless masses, the solitary figure, and the oppressive, ever-growing buildings. As I spoke, he listened intently, his eyes never leaving mine. When I finished, he leaned back and steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful.  

'You see, Oliver, dreams are not mere subconscious fantasies. They are reflections of the deepest corners of our minds, the places we dare not tread in waking life. The crowd you describe, the shadows, they are manifestations of your inner turmoil.'  

'But why do they seem so real?' I asked, my voice trembling. 'Why do I feel like I am in danger?'

'Because you are,' he replied, his tone grave. 'In a sense. The mind is a powerful entity, and the boundaries between dreams and reality can blur, especially under extreme stress. These shadows, as you call them, represent the parts of yourself you have repressed, the fears and desires you refuse to acknowledge.'  

I shuddered, the weight of his words sinking in. 'What do I do?'

Dr. Branberry leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the dim light. 'You must confront them. You must face these shadows and understand their purpose. Only then can you reclaim your mind and find peace.' 

As I left his office, a chill ran down my spine. The night air was crisp, and the city seemed unusually quiet. I returned home and sat on the edge of my bed, Dr. Branberry's words echoing in my mind. I knew what to do, but confronting those faceless monsters filled me with dread.  

That night, I fell into a fitful sleep and again found myself in the centre of the gigantic, turbulant city square. The silent crowd surged around me, and the oppressive buildings loomed overhead. But this time, something was different. I felt a strange resolve, a determination to confront the shadows that haunted my dreams. I can not carry on living in fear.

I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the suffocating closeness and the sensation of being watched. While staggering forward, the recurring solitary figure appeared in the distance. I forced myself to move towards it, each step a battle against the invisible molasses. As I drew closer, the figure's features materialised from the shadows. The young boy I always see, his silhouette resembles someone, no, it can't be! Is it??  

When I finally reached the figure, it was a mirror image of myself. But as a boy, maybe 10 or 11, why were my eyes so full of darkness and my face twisted with anguish? I reached out, and as our hands touched, a surge of memories and emotions flooded my mind. Every fear, every desire, every repressed thought came rushing to the surface, overwhelming me with their intensity.  

But I did not flinch. I embraced the shadows, accepting them as part of myself. And as I did, the oppressive silence shattered, replaced by a cacophony of sound and light. The faceless crowd dissolved, the buildings receded, and I stood alone in the square, the oppressive weight lifted from my shoulders.  

I awoke with a gasp, drenched in icy sweat. The silent crowd's oppressive presence only lingered in the back of my mind; the morning light streaming through my window warmed my soul. For the first time in months, I felt a sense of peace. The shadows were still there, of doubt, worry and other emotions but they no longer held power over me. I faced them and arose stronger.  

I grasped my diary from the bedside table and began to document. Dr. Branberry was right. The mind is a powerful entity, and the boundaries between dream and reality are fragile. But by confronting the darkest corners of our minds, we can find the strength to overcome our deepest fears and reclaim our lives. This journey has been one of self-discovery I will not forget. I have repressed myself since I was a young boy for fear of judgement. This nightmare can serve as a potent metaphor for existential isolation, the fear of losing one's identity in the face of societal conformity, and the anxiety of being perpetually scrutinised and judged by an indifferent world. The nightmare reflected deep-seated insecurity and the constant struggle to maintain a sense of self in a world that often feels overwhelmingly impersonal and alienating. The integration of my shadow is what makes me an individual; it is my strength.