Inkbottle Dream

I once dreamt that I was in London, only a subtropical London by the sea, where palm-trees swayed in a balmy breeze. It was night-time. I was walking the streets with a group of acquaintances, and every few minutes I would feel the need to stop at an ‘ink-box’. Every few blocks, you see, there were these red-painted metal ink-boxes on poles. Upon opening the hinged lid of one of these boxes, one could lift out the large jar of black ink that it contained, and use it to fill ones own personal ink-bottle.

I was the only one in the group who kept stopping for more ink - I thought perhaps my inkpot was leaking, but I could neither see nor feel any ink on my clothes. In any case, I eventually left my inkpot in one of the ink-boxes and went on my way, nevertheless making a mental note of that particular box’s position in front of ‘The Strand’ Hotel a grandly palatial establishment with a health club attached. I left my acquaintances and walked up to the health-club’s windows and looked inside at the wealthy patrons being massaged and pampered. I could hear my acquaintances mocking me lightheartedly: I would never be able to afford to stay at a hotel like that, they said.

And then I woke up. Puzzled by the dream, I looked up references to ink or inkpots as dream-symbols, and about all I could find was the following advice: let your thoughts flow on paper; give vent to your thoughts either verbally or through the written word; you have something to say and it should be made known.

The first two images above I lifted from Jim Gaston’s pen site, and the third is from 1001 ink bottles.