Master,

On the 29th day of Sagittarius, the dream world brought us the value of experience.

I was walking down a path beside a woodland area when a group of girls came flouncing towards me, caught up in excited chatter. They were recounting to one another what they loved about their short 10km train ride from the last station: a mid-luxurious railway carriage with plush velvet seating, wood-panelled personal cabins, but was otherwise plain.

The train had large pull-down windows that opened onto a view of snowy mountains. Only one of the girls looked unhappy. When asked why, she lamented that her camera had malfunctioned at the very moment the mountains came into view, forcing her to observe them unhindered by a mechanical device.

I pointed out that since it was only one stop away, she could always make several trips on the train to enjoy the moment for what it was—awe-inspiring and contemplative. Indeed, that was what she planned to do as soon as her camera was fixed.

The next time she returned, the view of the mountains would have changed only a little: the clouds would have dispersed or reshaped themselves into something more menacing; more snow could have fallen to blanket the sharp incline of the slopes; the sun might cast its rays from a different angle, creating a new image through a shift of shadows; the snow-tops could wear a pinkish hue instead of the glinting gold of the afternoon.

The short ride was a convenient one—so familiar that many people on the train no longer looked out of their windows to observe how the mountains differed from yesterday. They were still there, imposing in their full splendour: archetypal perfection in imperfect beauty, living and ever-growing in their purposeful existence, sheltering, providing, and regulating.

Photographs cannot hold a candle to experience, except to capture a moment shared amongst friends, even if it is only the first in a long line of ordinary days. Nothing stays the same, not even the mountains.

In this penultimate letter, may your experience of the everyday be elevated by the certitude of your importance to my own. I would never decline to look out of a window to see you, except when I know you would rather be hidden—though mountains cannot help but be admired, even from a distance.

Your eternal mate

Master,

On the 28th day of Sagittarius, my visit to the dream world was interrupted by vampires. One had chased me out of my window, where I jumped several storeys safely to the ground despite being human. Because there were people around, he couldn’t use his vampiric powers to catch me, so I strolled calmly to the next building in search of a hiding place. He trailed me from a distance like a compressed coil ready to burst into a spring. 

Then, on the rooftop of the four-storey building, two vampires tried to help me by stopping the others. Sadly, they were both killed. Surrounded now by hostile vampires, I accepted my fate resignedly and, as bravely as I could manage. They turned me into a vampire, even though I specifically asked them not to.

No one who has doom-scrolled enough times would want immortality on earth. I didn’t know whether I was turned into one of them because that had been the plan all along, or whether it was an improvised act of cruelty. That distinction would have helped me work out why they picked me out of the lot, when there are enough people in this world coveting eternal youth, invincibility, freedom from disease, and the ability to cause harm and terror with no accountability, and so on. It doesn’t make any sense. But there was no one to complain to, so I was going to have to work out how to live peacefully amongst other human beings as an undercover mortal.

So I signed a co-tenancy agreement with three other women so they could provide me with plausible deniability—something like: I’ve never seen her act like a vampire before, so she can’t be a vampire. I would be so surprised if she were. You are wrong! She never hurt any of us. Leave her alone! Etc. I did so confidently because of a drug I had access to—which dampened my powers much like diabetic drugs do to blood sugar levels. As long as I took it, I would be just like a regular human: no superhuman speed, strength, or anything.

One day, as I was coming out of the main door, I saw a policeman knocking on our side door. He didn’t realise that the doors were connected to the same apartment. But I hadn’t stuck around to see if he would suddenly realise his mistake. The last thing I wanted was for him to find, in my bag, my stash of anti-vampirism drugs. Not only were anti-drug stances pretty tough here, but being a vampire could be viewed as significantly worse—deleterious to the community, anyway. I crept down the stairs as quietly as a ghost and escaped back into the waking world, because clearly that whole experience was a waste of time.

Luckily my recent posts have been long, so I pray you won’t be disappointed by this nonsensical and short piece. Sometimes we dreamers get our trips detailed by mean-spirited things, nightmares or whatever they are, from time to time. It left me with the sense that something important is approaching. We’ll see tomorrow, I guess,

Still with lots of love and affection,

Your eternal mate

Master,

On the 27th day of Sagittarius, the dream world was a fiesta.

We entered several competitions together, though I can recall only one. Together, we fashioned an elaborately pleated ruff from organza, like those worn in the Elizabethan era. Several eagles moved from station to station, judging the working processes and the unfinished pieces, deciding whether they liked the result enough to be dressed in it. It was, quite plainly, an eagle-dressing competition.

A medium-sized, unimposing brown eagle stood nearby, studying our bright red collar. With only a few seconds left on the clock, we plonked the ruff over its head, where it puffed out around its neck glamorously like a statement necklace. The fabric was so lightweight it weighed almost nothing, interfering neither with its flight nor its gait, with enough structure to retain its intricate shape. The bright red stood stark against its nondescript brown feathers and, together with its size, ensured the eagle would remain spectacular from a distance.

In the Elizabethan era, ruffs signified social status and wealth: the larger and more intricate, the more important the wearer. Ours was dressed as a distinguished eagle, distinct from a working-class eagle that would be dressed in a smaller and simpler attire. Though we made its ruff impressive and dignified, as befitted its station, we made sure it was practical enough not to impede his daily life or duties which must be intellectual—it looked somewhat philosophical but could also pass as an engineer.

In the next part of the dream, we watched a screen replaying a rehearsal for a public performance, something like a National Day event. For the first time in a dream, I saw myself dancing in a group. To say it was cringe would be an understatement. Still, I strived to find something I liked about what I saw: my form and posture as I held a pose; my arms straight and parallel to the ground, created a beautiful symmetry. You looked entertained by the spectacle, but I nudged you along to a dress shop for an after-party dress—I did not like watching myself perform for others but will attend parties occasionally. The dresses displayed at the front of the shop were made of shiny, near-metallic fabric, and all of them were too short. I thought that at my age, a longer dress would be more fitting, even if I chose to leave my shoulders bare. You assured me we would find that dress together, implying that we would search the whole night if necessary—though perhaps we need not, because as we stepped further into the shop, we sensed potential.

I saved the most perplexing segment of the dream for last, though it arrived first, like an opening card.

I was alone with 6 wooden boxes from which to choose. 3 contained money, the other 3 unknown. I wanted the one that held one million dollars. The 1st box I opened contained $68. The rules of the game allowed the prize to be returned for another attempt, as long as the box contained money. I tried again and once more received $68 dollars.

On the 3rd attempt, someone suggested listening to the boxes.

“Look for the one that sounds like the forest.”

I did not know what that meant. The rustling of leaves? Birds roosting on creaking branches in the howling wind? I could not hear it. Sniffing did not help either; I did not find the scent of damp earth, leaves, and grass, only wood from all the boxes. The boxes were silent too, as if they did not speak to me—except for one that sounded like the sloshing of water. Water is a recurring element in both my dreams and my waking life. Naturally, I chose it, because the sound felt suited to me: defining, soothing and temperate.

At once, I found myself in a canoe—dry, steady, and safe. Muddy water surrounded me, as though there had just been a terrible flood, rising as high as the tallest trees in a forest. As I floated past the crowns of those trees, I realised there was no one around for miles. No sound except the calm ripple of water.

What I had chosen from the box must have been safety. Had I won the million dollars, it would have been underwater by now, along with the forest I had only moments ago been listening for.

I was not frightened, only surprised, because once again I found myself floating in a canoe during a flood, something that had happened several times in my dreams, the last of them was years ago. Though the canoe drifted on a lazy course, I was still going somewhere, while others looked on from their partially submerged homes—trapped, wet, and cold until the waters receded.

I know this symbol meant surviving a terrible experience. Safety, during and after chaos and disaster, is almost always a good sign.

Have we now come full circle? I have several dreams of late that imply exactly that. Was the dream reminding me of where I was, and asking me to look at where I am now? Since we later joined the competitions together, you must have survived too. You are a tiger, after all—masterful swimmers among the big cats. You probably ate your fill as you paddled on with partially webbed paws, napping as you floated without care, unchallenged as the top predator, your ruff only slightly in disarray—nothing a good shake would not fix.

Today’s synchronicity came in the form of red threads—strawberry red, to be exact. In the dress I was wearing, the strawberries some people and I were eating, the colour of their lipstick, on the book I was reading—red was everywhere.

I didn’t think much of it at first, because Chinese New Year is approaching and red is an auspicious colour in the Chinese culture. The red thread specifically is believed to connect two soulmates together.

As I was swimming this afternoon, I noticed several things at the bottom of the pool that looked like a dozen spools of red thread. It spoke to me only because I had been wondering why ducks had to be deployed, two nights ago, to fetch you, my soulmate. If they were indeed tasked with bringing us together, they would first have to retrieve the spools from underwater, then fly long distances over land and sea to find you. Ducks would indeed be most suited to such a task, having precisely the skills required.

Only a few days remain until my promise of 30 letters is fulfilled. Until then, all my love to fill your forever and a day. May the ducks find you in good stead.

Your eternal mate

Master,

On the 26th day of Sagittarius, the dream world brought us an allegory on justice. It likely bears some relation to the book I am reading, but if this was what transpired in the dream world, it would be disingenuous not to report it merely because I had not yet understood its purpose.

A king was seated at a justice’s bench, acting as judge and accuser. He tormented his captive first through public humiliation, recounting to the court how the man—his political rival—had, while imprisoned, been forced to urinate into a bamboo receptacle and stir it daily with a long stick. The reason for this act is unknown. It is implied that there had once been a purpose, but it was trivial enough that its mention was omitted even in passing. Thus, it can be understood that he was made to act solely at the king’s order, an exercise in compulsion and arbitrariness. The exercise of power is orgiastic.

“If you want to kill me, just go ahead and do it. End this farcical nonsense of a trial,” responded the man, still clinging to his dignity by a thread.

“Yes, I want to destroy you—but I must do so properly!” taunted the king, before breaking into hysterical laughter.

That was the end of the dream. We, the dreamers, are left to ponder how the court understood the king’s meaning of properly. It was surely not according to justice, fairness, or propriety. He used law and legal procedure to dispose of an innocent man in service of his own interests, exploiting the ambiguity of the word properly to give the court room to reach conclusions aligned with their own sense of morality—carefully made and rational, even though they ultimately served a twisted purpose. People are less likely to question an interpretation that feels thoroughly deliberated; to do so would seem excessive, unnecessary—like doubting a conscious, autonomous decision rather than arbitrary command. In this way, the king ensured the outcome he desired without directly ordering the court to act against their conscience. The court became complicit in carrying out the king’s harmful intentions, believing they were acting morally and autonomously, while the king maintained plausible deniability: he did not overtly force them to choose actions that led to an unjust outcome—they did that entirely on their own.

Any law that can be used to destroy the innocent in order to further an accuser’s interests undermines its own legitimacy and must be done away with. But how does one bring about change when the king himself oversees the enactment, amendment, and abrogation of the law?

This brings to light what having power truly means. Power is not merely the ability to sway opinions with beauty, youth, or charisma, to determine who secures coveted positions, to read and understand esoteric materials, to hire the greatest number of workers, or to accumulate vast wealth. Power lies in the capacity to create and control the normative structure—the framework that dictates acceptable conduct and compels behaviour accordingly. One need not be a king in today’s world for this to apply. Any leader claiming moral authority with a large following may qualify. Such a figure can manufacture moral outrage and induce conformity, compelling ordinary people to enforce the norms he has devised without constraint, sometimes through force and violence, while they believe in the rightness of their actions. He may feign sharing power with his cronies to secure their unwavering loyalty; this pretence is necessary insofar as it grants him the appearance of legitimacy, ensuring that his words retain their force.

The fictional book written by Sam Meekings, tells of The Book of Crows, originating from a shaman who suffered the indignities of punishment for foretelling a future to a king. To place the full burden of the king’s voluntary and conceited act upon the shaman was clearly an attempt to evade accountability for his own incompetence and irrationality. This was precisely what the king and his cronies did, acting without acknowledging—or even recognising—that one’s future is profoundly shaped by one’s own actions.

The shaman had told the king that if he went to war with another nation, he would win. Emboldened, the king sent his sons to fight for glory while he himself sat nearby on a palanquin smug in celebration. But the enemy defeated his army, killed his sons, and paraded their heads in retaliation.

The shaman’s punishment was to have his eyes removed and to be cast out into the desert, to wander until he met his grisly end. But the crows saved him—the same crows who had given him the first prophecy, who had been consulted because they had seen the future written in the sky before it darkened so the stars could appear. They led the shaman to safety, shared their carrion with him, and granted him the sight and prophecies of the world: past, present, and future.

Spiteful and still bitter over his mistreatment, the shaman used the last of his strength to pen them down in a book. In this final act toward a world he had come to abhor, he cursed humankind to a particular doom: nations would fight one another endlessly and to the death, just to possess the book. For he who sees the future is believed to control the world.

Perhaps, in this regard, we may be thankful that we have been granted leave to see only a small part of the future. It does not make waiting easier—except when we remember that what we await can only draw closer.

All my love and affection,

Your eternal mate

Master,

On the 25th day of Sagittarius, a flock of gentlemanly white ducks came to visit us. We were next to each other as the ducks stood in single file, waiting for you to open a hatch to an enclosed and underground pond for them to raft upon while they waited for the aboveground pool to be filled.

“It’s so they can hang out in private,” you said.

I wondered if that meant they would not be seen by prying eyes, and why it was important for that to be the case. But the ducks would not move from their stand-by positions. They were afraid of a wooden lever in front, which must have appeared tall, precarious, and menacing to creatures small and fluffy. So I beckoned the first in line with my arms outstretched for encouragement and protection. Adorably, it waddled forward and leapt without hesitation, arriving in my arms light as a cloud—soft, fragile, and endearing. I passed the first to you as the second prepared for its turn, tail swishing. In a flurry of tiny feathers, the first leapt excitedly from your arms onto its water playground. This careful but mechanical handing over of ducks continued until every last one was settled comfortably into their private pond, bumping into one another as they searched for a favourite spot.

At first I was worried that there would not be enough space for them all, seeing how many there were, but my concern was quickly dispelled when I saw how much room they had to manoeuvre around one another.

We brought out the kiddie pool—large as a public wading pool—and filled it with fresh water from a garden hose as the glare of the afternoon sun softened, cooling the air around us. Indeed, the ducks were happy with their new arrangement, so happy they forgot to take their toy with them. It was a hollow, egg-shaped thing made of plastic, with a bell inside that chimed crisply when nudged by little yellow beaks. I reached into a box of hay to retrieve the toy, only to discover that there were two.

“Silly ducks,” I thought affectionately. In their excitement, they had forgotten their most prized worldly possession. They would be thrilled to see them again now.

Google tells me ducks represent helpers in dreams, which means we are going to get at least a dozen of them—and just in time for Christmas too. Apart from being a romantic symbol, ducks represent versatility: they thrive on water, on land, and up in the air, travelling to wherever suits them best. That would make them excellent agents of the state, or of heaven. Being so unhindered by the natural world, they are a reminder not to place too much weight on tethering earthly concerns. Keep flexible, adaptable, and resilient. That was the message. Help is ready for dispatch.

Today’s synchronicity also came in the form of duck and a local noodle dish. I was watching a guy on TikTok adding an entire bowl of soup to dry noodles (BCM) to “loosen them up”, and the internet came for him. TBF, many Singaporeans were nice and welcoming to the tourist—no rules, they said. “To each his own.” Then, immediately, I went on Threads, scrolling half-heartedly and thinking about my duck dream—my fluffy white little helpers—my mind forming the question: when will the ducks come to help? As soon as I finished the thought, I landed on a post by a chef who had made duck chor mee—replacing pork with duck in traditional BCM. That made me giggle at a public bus stop.

I don’t think it means that the helpers are “cooked” literally and can’t attend to us in the near future—otherwise there would be no point to a symbol whose peaceful delivery was meant to give reassurance. It means they are prepared and ready to go.

Your eternal mate