There are dreams. And there are dreams.
Most of the time we dream of the mundane, or of syrupy morphed fragments of our days, or of turning up to work in our pajamas.
But once in a while we dream something else. Something that makes no sense, but leaves you with a feeling that it should.
And if we don’t write it down we forget….

The sharp corner of the box lid dug in between my ribs. It was heavy and awkward to carry.

The back story that had brought me to this place was unclear, other than the certain feeling that I had journeyed a long long way to get here. And the understanding that I had a precious package to deliver.

There was this stony path leading steeply up between two moss draped boulders to the foot of a series of steep wooden steps cut into the rock. I took off my shoes and climbed highly polished boards to a long covered oak walkway lined with alternating panels of hip-hop graffiti tags and rich silk wall hangings.

At the end of the walkway was an enormous room that smelt strong of cedar and tea. Small Japanese lanterns cast deep red and yellow pools of light, hinting low wooden tables set in rows on each side of the room. Above, huge dark amber ceiling beams melted into the dancing shadows.

Adjusting to the musty dimness, I could see a robed figure sitting off to one side. He was fingering a loose mala of beads that clacked over his thumb to the meter of his swaying back and forth. This was the person to whom I was to deliver the box.

Woven from strips of lacquered bamboo the colour of faded ivory. Below the box, and bound to it by thick, dark green woven cord, was a tightly folded wad of stained, brown paper. It looked as if it may have been joined to the box lid with some sort of seal that had long since broken away leaving traces of red wax and a dim circular stain.
I felt it was ancient.

The robed figure took the box from me and motioned for me to sit. With long dirty fingernails, he picked at the binding. Working slowly, the knot soon enough gave up its grasp. Passing the box back to me, he crackled open the document that slipped free from beneath, laying it out and gently ironing it smooth onto the floor with his palms.
The paper was half in shadow, but squinting I could make out a paragraph of French, and above that the a script that may have been Tibetan, and then something in Japanese or perhaps Chinese. The monk opened another fold and I could just make out some other groups of symbols.

Through squinted eyes the monk scanned over the paper for maybe a full minute, in a simmering silence that drowned out the distant creaking timbers of the temple, before grunting once as if in confirmation to himself.

He then nodded at me to open the box.

The lip of the lid extended down perhaps three or four centimeters around the box which was itself about the size of a loaf of bread on end. The whole of the box appeared to have warped with age and the lid was difficult. I pushed hard up on it with my thumbs and it scraped as it lifted away.

Inside, I could see a stack of objects. On top lay a perfect, fresh orange. It’s glistening colour stood out in stark relief from the rest of the contents of the box, the smell of its orange-ness was an orchard.
Below this, I could make out a dusty clay statue of a pig. It was flattened in its making with legs squashed out to the sides and a back scooped out in a smooth soap dish curve that held the orange still. Beads of dew had fallen from the fruit and now mixed with the dust in a tiny bubble of mud.

A pig’s snout curved up from one side as if sniffing for air.

Beneath the pig I could just make out the shape of a man. It seemed to be made from some thick woven material, papyrus or perhaps cane. It was also flat, like a gingerbread man, with a face turned to one side. He held something shiny in his left hand that disappeared, buried beneath flakes of clay and crumble that had fallen from the pig.
And finally beneath them all I could just make out another folded wad of bound sepia papers covered with drawings and text.

I slid the box forward over the polished boards with a sandpaper swish. It sat directly between the monk and me.
Without moving, his eyes examined the box and its contents. He then grunted once more and looked up at me, staring intently at me for way too long, until I could only look uncomfortably away.
Nodding slowly he lifted the document into the light and pointed.
I had not noticed it before, but at the bottom of the page in neat calligraphic ink was the final entry.

A single sentence in English:

The hardness of it all…… lies in being the pig.

The monk was staring at me again. Demanding I understand.
The hardness of it all, lies in being the pig.

I felt the some tipping slip from behind, as the fullness of my bladder dragged me in to my bed.

The bedroom seemed flat and lifeless compared to the intensity of the dream and I lay staring at the ceiling for quite some time while I separated the dream from the scene. I padded out onto the cold bathroom slate, running my tongue over the dream as if savoring the aftertaste of a rich chocolate cake. It all seemed very important and I was worried that the memory would quickly fade. As dreams do.

So at thee o’clock in the morning I sat in my underpants at my desk and wrote down the details so I wouldn’t forget.
Especially the bit about the pig.
And when I was satisfied that I had it all, I returned to bed and tried to fall back into the same dream where I had left off. It was a dreamless sleep till morning.

In the morning, after breakfast, I read back my dream, and it just seemed silly.
Or to be more accurate, it was the the fact that it didnt seem silly, that seemed silly.