A couple of days ago, I woke up in the “a.m.” with cold sweat and in poor spirits. My thoughts were in disarray as I lay flat on my bed. The night before exhausted me. I just wanted to shut my heavy eyelids and dream a sweet dream. It's unfortunate though, the fact that dreams are of our unconscious and that we cannot revisit them.

Freud proposed that dreams are significant psychic events that take place "below the surface" in the unconscious mind, hidden messages from the unconscious. He explained such events have both symbolic and actual importance.

Flashback struck me and my mind recalled that dream... It started in the mental institution, and I was a clinical psychologist in my mid-twenties. Long story short, there was a well-known and respected senior doctor with me as I was searching for someone urgently and my heart was beating fast. "Where is he?" I muttered breathlessly.

The entire hospital was in chaos. Many patients were noticeably terrified, screaming and running around aimlessly. I could see doctors and nurses panicking and arguing furiously about the situation they were facing. The bright fluorescent lights continued to flicker and the yellow lights were dramatically dimmed. Glass articles shattered upon hitting the floor. The resulting shards that were strewn across the floor caused shedding of blood from stepping on it. No one was in the right state of mind.

It was as if everyone succumbed to animalism, as if I was in a horror house. I was still looking for this boy. In my memories, he was targeted by the previously mentioned senior doctor and apparently, he wanted to kill the young innocent teenager. What for? I couldn't decipher the reasons, but all I knew is that I had to find this lad and bring him to safety, to an unknown place where nobody could find us. My feet brought me to the janitor's room and I saw him sleeping there, soundlessly amidst all the horror. I woke him up and told him we had to go. His eyes were pooled with feelings of lost and he narrowed his eyes, "Where to?” It wasn't like I could tell him he's in danger, because then I'll have to explain to him so much in so little time. This boy, I recalled, had a special place in my heart. It would hurt me to see his pained face if he knew someone was out for his life.

I pressed my lips together a moment, then made eye contact with him, "We're going home."

"Really?" He was elated and beaming with joy. It was funny, how by hearing the word 'home' makes his face light up instantly.

"Let's." I said more gently as I took his hands.

He nodded, "Okay," and we ran for our lives. Different emotions visibly plastered on our face. He was joyful and I was still terrified.

Moments later, when we were at the lobby of the institution, making our exit, I saw him. The bald doctor was looking at us smugly, he put his hands behind him. He had a syringe with him, I knew. His eyes fixated on the boy with such intensity. I could feel him burning in anger.

I couldn't remember much then, but all I knew was him pressing my fingers tightly with his and I didn't know why I couldn't move an inch. It hurts (but I obviously don't feel the pressure) but I wasn't moving and allowing him to do so. Why? The boy that held my hands ran away and were chased by the others. But why was I still there helplessly?
Source:
Unconscious Mind