The Tao of Crocodiles

A short story by Euan HarveyDreams have power. Not the common dreams of flying or arriving naked at work—those are nothing more than the froth thrown up as the sleep-waves roll across the mind. No, the dreams that have power are the deep dreams, the unformed dreams. They move slowly in the deep of the mind, like great whales gliding under the waves. Dreams of this type sang to Bach and Mozart. Dreams like this span webs of beauty to dazzle the eyes of Picasso and Van Gogh. Dreams like this poured out through the hands of Byron and Shelley.But below these dreams, far below, where the mind turns black and cold and the pressure grasps and crushes in a smothering embrace, down there in the abyss swim the black dreams, the hungry dreams, the dreams of blood and bone. These are the dreams that whisper in the ears of the man next door as he stares unblinking at the ceiling and thinks of his daughter's flesh. These are the dreams that coil around the heart of the young mother living across from you, as she stares at her ever-crying baby, her hands white-knuckled on the pillow she grips with both hands.These are the dreams that goose-stepped across Europe. These are the dreams that piled skulls high in Cambodia. These are the dreams that wore white hoods and planted strange fruit.Dreams are powerful things.And in Thailand, land of white elephants, sleeping giants and mechanical swans, they are most powerful indeed. Here, the hungry dreams can reach out and swallow you whole.