Step into the Dream Gallery at Dreamwhack, where imagination and reality intertwine in a vibrant community dedicated to exploring the mysteries of the mind. This unique space invites dreamers from all walks of life to share their most vivid, surreal, and thought-provoking dreams.
Whether your nights bring fantastical adventures, unsettling visions, or tender moments of clarity, the Dream Gallery transforms them into stories worth celebrating.
Here, dreams are more than fleeting shadows—they are gateways to creativity, self-discovery, and connection. Members can post their experiences, engage in thoughtful discussions, and uncover hidden meanings through collective interpretation.
The gallery is not just a forum; it’s a living archive of human imagination, where fantasy and reality collide in poetic expression.
From introspective reflections to fantastical narratives, the Dream Gallery encourages you to embrace the unreal and find meaning in the intangible. It’s a place to question, to wonder, and to connect with others who see dreams as more than illusions.
Join the conversations today and discover how your nightly visions can inspire, heal, and spark creativity in ways you never imagined.
Short Story
What I Am Told
What I am told. But what I am told is built on a canvas of lies. So, what should I believe when what I am told fashions my beliefs and when what I am told may not be possible for me to know.
Believing in the scarcely credible is giving yourself false confidence, and believing in the unlikely to be true is what I am told I should know. I open my heart and empty my mind so that what I should accept should not correspond to facts without the handicap of an unquestioning mind.
If what I am told does not conform to reality, does not make sense, and is not uplifting and enlightening, then what I am told is what I do not need to know. So, what am I to believe when what I am told is designed to make a fool of me?
Empty is the head having a mind that refuses to think for itself. Where any and everything is dumped into a hollow shell finding comfort within it. The things that I am told are not about the truth. They are about the unreal reality people have told me to be so.
What I am told goes into one nostril and comes out of my behind. Yet what I am told is the foundation of my beliefs. A fantasy foundation that crumbles under scrutiny and falls apart in the slightest breeze.
It is impossible to know what I am being told without the faith to believe that it is so. Yet having faith without knowledge is like a shadow that appears without any light to produce it. So, what I am told, I believe by faith without proof or knowledge.
I feel the warmth of life when I am in her arms. She is strong. She is beautiful. I do not need faith to know what I know about her. What I am told has nothing to do with her because I know she is the woman for me.
Her presence fills the empty head, and all my questions are answered by her touch. I know this without being told when I investigate the smile for me that is in her eyes. What I am not being told, I know for sure.
I know that her mahogany brown skin makes my chestnut brown skin tingle. That yes and no means yes and no. And that the reality of her and I is the reality of nature as it is meant to be.
I should live in an illusionary world of shadows, and I should make this shadowy world my reality is what I am told. I should adjust my life to conform to someone else’s standards and not even try to create quality standards of my own, is what I am told.
This is what I am told. And to what I am told, I say no. But what am I other than a breath away from death? My thoughts and feelings are like falling leaves having no place to rest. One moment is all moments I know this to be so without being told as I hear and feel the fragility of my heart beating.
My path is defined by her outstretched hands beckoning me towards her. In my mind, I have no wits that are apart from hers. The things I tell myself are all that I need to know about her.
And what I know about her is good for me. Darkness is the path to perfect blackness which is the cosmos singing in harmony.
I live. I die. I die. I live. As one is the same as the other. Delicate hands I kiss. Dainty feet as food to eat. Because what I am told cannot compare to doing this.
