Although I generally don’t like talking about my dreams, I feel like looking back on them sometimes. Dreams are the writing on the walls of the brain spoken back to us. We hear them, we see them, and we try to interpret them. I genuinely believe that no interpretation of a dream is wrong, so long as that interpretation isn’t aiming to be wrong. But what are the dreams I have? The dreams of a person with no foresight or interest in knowing the future; what are my dreams?
My dreams come at me like a heavy flood, in which I drown in them. I gasp for air as the images of my past, strangely familiar faces, and scenarios I’ve never experienced was over me. My latest dreams included: Emily’s death, a tangible string connecting all parts of my life, my abstract home with doors that lock to open, and a crisis of the existential nature. My dreams are subtle as a slap to the face. I often wake up momentarily distraught or sad. When I was really young I remember waking up happy. What ever happened to that? Does growing up take that away from us?
I’ve dreamt about pleasures that were within grasp, but my mind willed to not to achieve them. All too often I dream about loss. Loss within a dream is real, because when I wake up I know that loss is still there. My body is a cage, and my mind is the sight between the bars.
This stream of consciousness is a nightly occurrence, and, although it sounds hellish, I can’t wait to get back to sleep some nights.