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nine thousand years ago
I can never just fall asleep. As soon as I shut my eyes my mind
starts bouncing, revising, reviewing the day's events, revisiting
memories, formulating theories, devising melodies, harmonies,
songs, symphonies, narratives. An hour or two of this before I
sucumb to the arrested state of sleep is my every day routine. It's
said that sleep is the mind's way of resolving conflicts which the
conscious mind could not. For me that process starts certainly
earlier, in a half-way state. I don't know to what extent what
goes on before sleep influences the dreams I have that night.
Whenever I dream – or whenever I remember dreaming a dream
–, which is fairly rare, I feel as if I have woken up to a dream, not
fallen into it. This time it was in Çatalhöyük, nine thousand
years ago.
I open my eyes and it takes me a while to realize I have opened
them. This darkness is darker than any dark I have ever seen.
Above, a sky full of bright stars and a low moon fail to
illuminate my suroundings. Two people are carrying me; I feel
too weak to move. I force my neck to raise my head, and some
faint, orange lights burn in a distance. It's obvious this is where
I'm being taken to. The lights get brighter as we approach them,
the orange becomes red from the crackling fires on the roofs of a
primitive metropolis.
Several rectangular, contiguous dwellings form a conglomerate,