In a dream again, I found myself in a labyrinth. This was not a labyrinth of walls, though, it was a labyrinth of space and, instead of feeling claustrophobic confinement, I felt the oppression of a space too rich, too rich and dense, to meaningfully comprehend.
This was a desert, with occasional rocks, trees, allowing me some orientation with respect to my world and, yet, I couldn’t shake off a feeling of general disorientation.
I set my sight on a particular tree, which was standing next to a sharply jutting piece of sandstone several paces away. I made my way towards it, or rather, tried to – I found after one or two paces these to be on the periphery of my vision, though a little closer – I turned to face them again, and stepped forward: walking towards this tree was like keeping one’s balance on a bicycle – it took constant corrections.
I picked up a small stone, some black, rough stone, from the sand, and tossed it forwards a short distance; I found that I was getting the hang of this desert, and was able, with some small exertion of effort, to walk to it and pick it up again, though I could only move but slowly.
I picked up two stones, and made an effort to toss them both t the same point a few metres away. Indeed, they looked to land rather closely together. And, yet, as I walked towards one, I found the other getting further and further away, until, by the time I had reached my destination, the other one was almost as far from me as I was now from the point at which I had thrown it.
The geometry of this place was…thick; it seemed that even the slightest error in orientation, on a walk of but a few paces, could result in you being further away than when you started.
I then knew, as one does in dreams, that my destination – the place where I needed to go, was many miles away, that I could spend a lifetime of lifetimes trying to find it and, even if someone could point me in its rough direction from where I was, I would have little chance of ever finding it.