Crushing the Serpent
I had this mysterious dream last year and I decided to journal it amongst others. I'd like to have different views about its possible meaning and symbolism. I have written it down exactly the way I recorded it.
In the early hours of April 10, 2025, I dreamed I was back in my father’s house—a place at once familiar and unsettlingly altered by a quiet, watchful tension. I moved through its rooms with deliberate caution, my eyes scanning every corner as one searching for something concealed, something that refused to reveal itself easily.
At first, nothing seemed out of place. The walls stood as they always had, the curtains hung undisturbed, and the furniture rested in its usual arrangement. Yet an unease lingered, pressing faintly against my senses. It was then that I noticed it—a long, coiled form stretching through the house and into the kitchen. It resembled a pipe at first glance, an ordinary fixture blending seamlessly with its surroundings.
But there was something about it that resisted dismissal.
Its colour—a muted, greenish hue marked with faint lined patterns—had merged almost perfectly with the tones of the walls, the curtains, and even the textures of the furnishings. It lay there in deceptive stillness, so convincingly disguised that it might have escaped notice entirely. And yet, as I watched more closely, suspicion sharpened my gaze. Within the length of that “pipe,” I began to see movement—subtle, unsettling currents of whitish fluid shifting beneath its surface.
It was not inanimate.
Recognition came like a quiet jolt. What had lain in the kitchen all this time, masquerading as a harmless conduit, was in fact a massive serpent—alive, patient, and perfectly camouflaged within the home.
Compelled by a strange mix of fear and resolve, I stepped closer and reached out. My hands grasped its body near the tail, and I began to pull. Slowly at first, then with greater force, I dragged at the creature until it stirred. The serpent unravelled itself from its coiled stillness, its immense body sliding free as it turned toward me.
It was enormous—large enough, I thought, to swallow a little man whole.
Without warning, it lunged.
I recoiled, dodging its strike as it surged forward with terrifying speed. For a moment, it veered past me, writhing toward where my father stood, frozen in shock. Then, as if reconsidering its advance, it withdrew, its body recoiling into itself before retreating once more toward the kitchen. There, it settled again, coiling beneath the sink, pressing its patterned skin against the floor and cabinets as though attempting to vanish back into the illusion of its surroundings—an unspoken warning not to provoke it further.
But I did.
Gripping its tail once more, I pulled. The reaction was immediate. The serpent lashed out again, more aggressively this time, its body rippling with force as it charged.
I turned and ran.
From the kitchen, I fled into another room, my pulse surging as I heard the unmistakable sound of its pursuit—the heavy, gliding movement of its body against the floor. It followed, relentless, closing the distance with alarming speed. Just as it began to force its way into the room behind me, I slammed the door shut with all the strength I could muster.
The impact caught its head.
The door jammed against it, and in that instant, I forced it closed again—harder—crushing down with desperate resolve. The force of the blow reverberated through the wood as I struck its head with the door, repeatedly, until its advance was halted.
Only then did I realize where I stood.
It was my room—my own space within my father’s house—now transformed into the final refuge in a confrontation that had begun with a quiet, almost invisible threat lurking in plain sight.