The Wolf and the King

I’m interested in dreams, reflecting on what memories I can steal from that miserly world so careful to keep its nightly drama a secret. Last night, I dreamed about an enemy, a wolf like a cloud of black smoke, seeking what it may devour. With wisdom we fought him off, but at great cost. To the point, when another enemy came, and he perhaps orchestrated the first fight, our defense was pathetic, of such little note that it seemed we lost before we even realized the second attack.

And here the two enemies, juxtaposed, present an interesting contrast: The fierce wolf was of chaos, made of billowy insubstantial smoke, the second enemy of order, a tyrant demanding we bow to his new sovereignty. We could fend off the wolf that simply scattered our gold, but the tyrant overwhelmed us seemingly without a fight. Yet, under his rule I could regather the resources, the gold talents, lost in the first battle. The wolf, though hungry, was held at bay by the tyrant, and though we were now subjugated, this master had no desire to make us suffer. And so I wondered, looking at my recovered treasures, whether I should turn them against this tyrant.

And somewhere in the midst of all this, I wandered lost in a park. I know not what that had to do with the rest of the dream, but the park seemed essential, the setting, of the whole affair. Such are the mysteries of the dream. The tyrant descended like an alien invader from heaven, and perhaps resembled Thanos from Infinity War, and the wolf, as it were, leaked out from deep underground, a suffocating cloud sneaking back into the world he’d been banished from. They worked together, but the tyrant was the wolf’s master, and between their worlds was the park where I was lost.