It was almost 3:30am and his eyes had just opened from a short 10 second nap he didn’t foresee coming, The painter was exhausted
All day he was working on a very intricate painting, with hundreds of details to keep track off, he was a perfectionist and as he went to bed and lay in bed with his eyes closed, he was still planning the strokes he would take the next day to finish another portion of his painting, when all of a sudden he realized he was no longer in bed, he was in a dream, and he could remember being fully conscious and that this place wasn’t real.
It was almost as if he was holding on to a line used to send information from both sides of a black hole, only that this one doesn’t suck light, it sucked consciousness.
It seemed that in either of these states of consciousness the amount of information that was being processed by his brain was so much that it could hardly work in parallel, his dream state was borrowing enough brain power to render the graphically detailed context only the mind of a painter could render, he realized this was the reason his dream state of mind was more like a movie on which he had no control of what was going to happen next.
The painter thought of all this, and thought of how every time he was curious to try and see what meditation was about, it all seemed to him like a croak of shit, just a voice telling him to imagine all these things and to somehow feel them, that was too hard to achieve, at least for him it was.
But this, this was the real deal, so he would practice every night this self-taught form of lucid dream meditation, he’d just try to focus on something really hard just waiting for his body to give up and go to sleep, yet his conscious mind would end up in the dreamworld where he’d find all sorts of answers to life, nobody had to explain anything.
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