Dreams of being blocked at the border constitute a major category within my dream universe, and every single one of them is an arduous struggle.
Once, at the absolute end of a rugged, treacherous road, a steep, sheer mountain suddenly materialized out of nowhere, standing completely vertical like a massive blockade right in front of me. Thinking to myself that everything would be fine as long as I could just scale this peak, I climbed and climbed until I was utterly exhausted. Yet, the moment I finally dragged myself to the summit, expecting to catch my breath and celebrate victory, an infinite, boundless ocean presented itself before my eyes.
On another occasion, I was queuing up to cross a massive international bridge. The crowd trying to pass through was unbelievably congested, pushing and shoving in complete chaos. The center of the bridge was walled off with heavy barbed-wire fencing, leaving a single, narrow gap just wide enough for one person to squeeze through at a time. Officers stood guard on the opposing side, strictly inspecting documents before letting anyone pass. The moment darkness fell, they shut down the crossing entirely, and I failed to make it over.
Fortunately, all of these exhausting border dreams occurred while I was already living in a foreign country. Upon snapping awake, I would secretly rejoice, comforted by the reality that I had already successfully reached my destination.
At dusk, I was taking a solitary stroll down the street when an acquaintance ambiguously led me into a quiet, secluded corner. Just as I assumed she was making an affectionate overture toward me, she suddenly called out for her mother to open the door—it turned out we had arrived at her family home. Stepping inside, she mixed a chilled beverage and handed it to me in an exquisite ceramic cup; the drink was filled with tiny, dark frozen berries. Her parents, older brother, and twin younger sister (born just an hour apart from her) all welcomed me with immense warmth.
After finishing dinner, I walked over to the window and gazed outside. To my astonishment, the house was situated in an elite architectural district lined with magnificent, palace-like structures and breathtaking street plazas adorned with Renaissance-style stone sculptures. Flowing right beneath the window was an urban river, flanked on both sides by luxurious estates. Resting by the riverbank was a massive stone statue, half-submerged in the current; looking closely, it resembled a crouching giant lobster, its head turned toward the distant horizon.
She then escorted me outside, accompanied by her older brother. The streets were bustling and packed with people. We boarded a double-decker open-top tourist bus. The moment her brother stepped off the bus to head back home, I was the very first to spot a dark, uneven sphere—larger than a human fist—streaking down from the heavens, trailing a plume of smoke.
"A meteorite!" I screamed, pointing directly at the rapidly plunging object.
Before the words could even leave my lips, a dense volley of incoming meteorites rained down, growing larger and larger, flying past our bus in a terrifying blur. One particular fireball, about the size of two fists, came hurtling straight toward my face. I instinctively extended my right hand to block it. Upon meeting the force of my fingertips, the sphere slightly altered its trajectory, scraping upward past my hand and leaving a streak of dark mud across the pad of my index finger.
"Quick! Help me take a photo of my finger!" I shouted, showing the physical trace of the cosmos to the crowd on the bus.
Before anyone could snap a photo, an intense, dense rain of meteorites of all sizes bombarded the area. Massive fireballs—some as large as automobiles—came rolling furiously down the streets. The driver twisted and turned the steering wheel, veering left and right, barely managing to evade the destruction. As the fireballs multiplied on the road, making escape mathematically impossible, the bus suddenly plunged into a thick-roofed tunnel or beneath a massive bridge.
Safe at last, we merged back into the pedestrian flow, and the streets grew heavily congested. In the chaotic shuffle, my friend was abruptly separated from me. I cried out at the top of my lungs, "Where on earth am I going?!"
From far away, cutting through the noise, she shouted back the name of a specific country—an area that felt as though it was located right on the frontier between Europe and Africa.
"I don't want to go there! I want to go back to Shanghai!" I wailed.
"Then disembark halfway through the trip!" she yelled back, waving her hand in farewell as the surging human tide swept her further and further out of sight.
"Which bus route do I take?!" I frantically called out.
She rattled off a string of numbers—'XXXX'—and added, "The bus is about to leave! Hurry over to the embassy to process your paperwork!" Then, she vanished entirely.
At the crossroads ahead, three distinct paths diverged from our incoming route, leading toward entirely different destinations. Caught in the bottleneck of the intersection, with no time to deliberate and zero ability to choose, I was violently swept up by the human current and funneled into the leftmost, wider path. Embedded deep within the crowd, I began frantically asking anyone and everyone for directions to the embassy.
Halfway down the road, a well-dressed, middle-aged Japanese woman approached me, asking if I could do her a quick favor and add up the totals on several receipts she was holding. My mind was entirely consumed with finding the embassy. "I'm so sorry, I have absolutely no time," I blurted out. "Do you happen to know where the embassy is?"
She replied, "Walk with me. I'm heading in that exact direction anyway."
So, I followed her, even exchanging a few brief phrases in Japanese. She guided me through a maze of busy streets and tight alleys, turning several corners before suggesting, "Let's stop by my office to sit for a moment first." The buildings in this sector were incredibly solemn and beautiful, perfectly mirroring the historic architecture of Renaissance Europe. Arriving at a quiet, secluded alcove along a corridor inside a massive building, she set her belongings directly down onto the floor—it appeared that this bare patch of floor was her actual office.
A sudden wave of realization washed over me; I felt trickled and deceived. I instantly spun around, intending to retrace my steps and escape. But the path I had come from was completely gone. I pushed open a door that looked like an exit, only to find myself staring into a colossal, rectangular hall. Down the center ran a single, incredibly narrow aisle, flanked on both sides by rows of people working in total silence, turning their hollow, expressionless gazes to stare directly at me. The room possessed absolutely no other exits. Backing out in a panic, I wound through several more turns in the corridors; every spot that resembled an exit was occupied by someone working, and every single path led to a dead end. Only then did it dawn on me that I had been deliberately lured into a gargantuan, inescapable labyrinth.
Looking down from a semi-open, elevated gallery on the third or fourth floor of the building, I spotted several massive hounds guarding the street entrances below. Their jaws were wide open, viciously biting anyone who attempted to enter; even the police were completely barred from getting through. Up on the gallery, the crowd was densely packed and suffocatingly tight. A few patrollers moved through the masses, walking large dogs whose muzzles were securely bound with ropes, preventing them from opening their jaws wide.
Suddenly, I felt a heavy force shoving against me. Looking down, I saw a massive hound forcefully squeezing into my space. Wedged tight between the wall, the crowd, and the beast, I was pushed so hard that I ended up suspended in mid-air, plastered flat against the wall, yet I still couldn't escape the dog. With a sudden lunge, the hound clamped its jaws clean onto my left hand right near my pinky finger, refusing to let go. The physical sensation of its razor-sharp teeth sinking deep into my flesh was terrifyingly real, causing a wave of intense, sharp pain.
Turning my head in agony, I noticed several other people suspended flat against the wall along the same row, each of them being bitten by various small animals. The middle-aged woman beside me whispered, "You must endure it. Wait until its jaws loosen, and then find a way to break free."
Enduring the agonizing pain, I suddenly felt the grip of its teeth begin to shift and slacken, as if it was attempting to reposition its mouth onto my pinky finger. Seizing the absolute fraction of a second, I wrenched my hand back with all my might, violently broke free from the hound's grip—and snapped wide awake.
