The dream is the (disguised) fulfillment of a (suppressed or repressed) wish. Dreams are not meaningless, they are not absurd; they are wish-fulfillments. They deal with things which we would prefer not to think about directly, which have been repressed from the waking life, and so they find expression in strange disguises. In every dream, the unconscious speaks to us in symbols, in distortions, and in transformations of thought. The dream-thoughts which underlie the dream are intelligible, coherent, and connected with our waking life. Yet they are hidden beneath the dream’s fantastic images. Thus, every dream is a riddle, and its solution is bound up with uncovering the unconscious wishes that created it. The path from the dream to its hidden meaning is not straightforward but filled with symbols, substitutions, and misdirections. Just as the waking mind resists certain truths, the dream fabricates defenses—turning fear into monstrous images, turning desire into puzzles, turning guilt into haunting figures. Dreams, then, are the royal road to the knowledge of the unconscious, revealing truths that daylight conceals. In dreams, the unconscious does not speak to us with logic but with images. The figures we encounter are not merely inventions, but archetypes—timeless patterns that dwell in the deep psyche. A dream of the stranger, the shadow, the child, the hero—these are not accidents but manifestations of forces older than our own memory. In these archetypes lie the myths of our ancestors, shaping our choices in ways we cannot easily name. To walk in a dream is to walk through a theatre where the soul plays out its oldest stories in masks and riddles. Every city has two faces: the face it shows the world by day, and the face it hides in restless sleep. The daylight is crowded with words, duties, transactions—but at night, beneath the glow of lamps and in the silence of the mind, the city’s secret heart begins to stir. The hidden shame of its citizens, the fears they whisper only to themselves, the desires they repress—all take form as corridors, stairways, impossible chambers. To walk these dreamscapes is to wander in the shadow of truth, where every lie casts a monstrous silhouette. Consciousness is not a thing, but a process, a flowing river of thought. Yet beneath this stream there lie sediments—forgotten impressions, unfinished emotions, impulses that never found their course. In dreams, these sediments rise to the surface, coloring the waters with strange shapes. A trivial memory may become immense; a passing anxiety may grow into terror; a wish unspoken may reveal itself as the central image. We do not merely dream—we are dreamed, carried along by forces we only partly command. Night is the great conspirator. When the eyes close, the mind begins its secret work, stitching together fragments of memory, fear, and desire into a fabric that both hides and reveals. A mother’s voice becomes the whisper of a ghost. A door half-seen in childhood becomes an endless labyrinth. The self is split, mirrored, and multiplied until we no longer know which mask we wear. Yet in this confusion lies the purest truth—that the soul is never whole, but a shifting constellation of fragments forever seeking to become one.