Once again, I find myself running. The corridors shift beneath my feet, stretching, bending, distorting as though they belong not to the material world but to the unconscious itself—shapeless, fluid, dictated by forces unknown to my waking mind. And yet, I know with certainty that behind me, just at my heels, is the rabbit.
It is a creature of no real threat. Small, brown, its form is innocent, even benign. It does not snarl, does not leap toward me with aggression. It speaks only a single word:
“Run.”
And so I do. I flee through this labyrinth, though I do not know from what. The rabbit, too, is running—but is it pursuing me or warning me? Or is it simply the manifestation of my own unconscious, given form in this nocturnal theater of repression?
The animal figure, the chase, the command—each element is symbolic, drawing from the deep well of my psyche. The rabbit, so often a symbol of fertility, of innocence, of uncontrollable instinct, stands as a representation of something primal within me. It urges me onward, yet it is not the true source of my terror. No, the true fear lies in the unseen, the thing that lurks beyond, the thing that both the rabbit and I are escaping.
Could it be the manifestation of a suppressed desire? A latent anxiety? Am I fleeing some forbidden impulse, one too dangerous to acknowledge in waking life? Or is this rabbit the embodiment of duty, of expectation—some force within me that demands I move forward, though I do not know why, nor toward what?
The dream repeats, night after night, and yet its meaning eludes me, slipping through my fingers like sand. Perhaps I do not wish to know. Perhaps the mind protects itself from revelations too unbearable to face. And yet, I know this much:
I run not from the rabbit, but from what it represents. And so long as I do not turn to face it, I shall remain forever in flight.
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