Towards midnight, asleep in a black bedroom, Chuang Tzu dreams he is a butterfly. In every manner, and in minute detail, a butterfly.  A yellow triangle flying over a garden, delighting in its own movements. The butterfly flutters here and there, conscious only of its own happiness and knowing nothing of Master Chuang.  Suddenly, he is awakened by the brooding cry of a bird.  And there he is, unmistakably himself again. But he does not know whether he is a man who dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly now dreaming it is a man.



Towards midnight, asleep in a black bedroom, Chuang Tzu dreams he is a whale. Lying motionless on the surface of the water, the whale dreams, in minute detail, it is a butterfly.  A moving yellow triangle flying about.  Suddenly, a strange bird cries out and Master Chuang awakes.  A butterfly flutters around him. Now he does not know whether he is a man who dreamt he was a whale, or a whale still dreaming it is a butterfly.


Towards midnight, asleep in a black bedroom, Chuang Tzu dreams ...

Towards midnight, Chuang Tzu dreams he is a typewriter.  And that won’t do at all.



© 2008 EZEQUIEL VIÑAO. All rights reserved.

 

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