For some divine reason, I felt so exhausted this afternoon that I fell asleep unintentionally.

And I just woke up, from a pretty weird dream. It is so, so fresh in my head. You should only be reading this if you're remotely interested in hearing about it, okay. And do remember it's a dream, so excuse me if things don't add up.

It went like this.
I was having a conversation with a friend of mine outside on a cold, starry night. His name was Han. (FYI, I don't have a friend named Han in reality)
It somehow looked as if we were in Guantanamo. We were talking when a superhuge aeroplane flew overhead. (FYI, it looked like a Cathay Pacific Boeing 747, but in a rich cobalt blue, blending in with the night sky.)

Me : That's my plane. (??)
Han : Why is it so slow?
Me : What makes you think it's slow?
Han : Look at it, it's hardly moving in the sky.
Me : It's moving. You just can't see it. It'll be gone in a moment.
Han : You sure?
Me : Yeah. It would probably move faster if it was smaller; but since it's so big it moves slower. You can't be so big and move fast at the same time. God is fair that way. (??)

Suddenly I was at Han's apartment, which was apparently somewhere in the US. I opened up a packet of fried rice or something, and proceeded to eat with the nearest spoon I could find, which was a tiny, delicate silver spoon. This old man came and spoke to me in Dutch. For some reason, I understood him. He suggested that I find a bigger spoon.

Me : The kitchen is too far away.
Old man : But you could use a bigger spoon.
Me : The spoons in the kitchen are all plastic. I have a silver one right here.
Old man : You're torturing yourself with that tiny spoon.
Me : I know. But it's silver. Why would I travel so far, to only get plastic?
Old man : Then what are you doing here?

At this point, I got so annoyed by this old man that I stood and left the room. I began rummaging through a shoebox, of all things. Han told me that the box contained some prized possessions of his late father. A piece of paper caught my eye and I took it out. I started skimming through it.

Han : That was my father's favourite poem. My mom wrote it for him before they got married.
Me : It's not a haiku. (??)
Han : I know.
Me : It doesn't rhyme.
Han : I know.
Me : It doesn't make sense.
Han : I know. But it was beautiful to him, and that's all that matters.


I read it over and over again, trying to find the beauty/meaning of it, until I woke up.