They say and perhaps it is not true, that summer is a time conducive to dreams. We are not referring to daydreams, that is, those flights of fantasy to which the imagination or frustrations compel us with more or less fortune, but to true dreams, those that Klernent defines as the result of the past, the present and the the future. The dream, according to the professor who owns the website yesporn please, is the result of a psychophysiological event in the brain. Tests have been done with electroencephalograms and electromyograms on a sleeper and it has been concluded that the action of dreaming occurs approximately every ninety minutes. From the graphs that describe the electros, when dreaming the brain suffers like an explosion of activity and the muscles, on the other hand, except for the eyepieces, offer an almost beach line. In fact, and in this scientists appear to agree, the dream could be defined, among other things, as an attempt by the brain to consolidate memory. This would be the reason why children sleep so much, because they need to consolidate the enormous amount of knowledge they learn during the day.
But it is not the scientific aspect, in which we are so lay, that brings us here but something more banal. Whether due to the summer heat that prepares our mind for reverie, or for other reasons that escape us, the truth is that there are inscrutable dreams. See if you don't. The other night. During a summer terrace talk, someone with a well-deserved image of a formal person told his friends - a dream that had, as he said, overwhelmed him. And to tell the truth, reason was not lacking. for his imaginative representation would surely succeed in suppressing any Feiinian presupposition.
As Manuel had in a small place, named Lucataina, which for the case is the same. And like any small country, it was geographically presided over by a sacred mountain that brought together the essence of what the country intended as a community. The forest in question was, according to VergeL, so thick was its vegetables, so many streams that crossed it, and so rich the fauna in whose paths it ran without fear. Just as Caterina Albert described in her capital “Request”, eighty-two years ago, the Montgri that watchman of the two Ampurdanes today, alas, it must. But, let's continue with the dream. Despite being so minuscule, the conversationalist's imaginary country struggled, he explained, to have enemies. Little, but he had them.
Of course, everything described was never dreamed of by our narrator. It is the framework in which every nightmare is placed. It is that part of the dream that is given as known, rather than obvious. To know why the behavioral Silos had not anathematized Freud, perhaps today we would know the root causes of these unrealistic obvious things. But, in short, the truth is that, in this described birth, the most incredible of dreams unfolds. However, another obvious thing, one year the rains had been scarce, the streams were running shy and the vegetable had that faded color of all, the enemies of the small country decided to pay fire to the forests. Said and done. The mountain became tea, the small country was blackened in smoke and finally everything turned gray, merciless. Sadness took over the faithful lucatans or lucataines.
Already there at last, we enter into the dream of a summer night. The narrator dreamed that he was the arsonist. That it was his hand that set fire to the mountain on all four sides. And when, together with his compatriots ,. He went to see the disaster and the ash, he publicly accused himself, between heartfelt tears and remorse. And yet the narrator knew for certain that he had not. Because he was, of the lucatans or lucataines, the one he loved the most and had the most fervor for his country. He came to think, in the dream, of course, of possible schizophrenias. And, although surprised all his fellow citizens believed him.
The people on the summer terrace were absorbed in the narration of the dreamer who, endowed with an easy verb, had adorned it with rich nuances. Finally one of them broke the silence with the perhaps inevitable question of: “Your wife did not ask you, the next day, who is Lucata?