I don’t like to dream.
There, I said it. And it is true. I don’t like to dream.
I am not talking about the daydreams, fantasies, wishes we all have. The somedays, the lofty goals, the rewards we work for. I am talking about the dreams fill the night while we lay unsuspecting in our beds.
The word Dream makes us think of fairies and glitter and all things lovely. Landscapes that are beyond those we see in real life, where people are painfully beautiful, and everything goes as planned-and then some. But I do not have those, or if I do, they are so few and far between I cannot recall them.
I wonder sometimes if I am the only one that wakes in a mood I cannot describe until much later in the day, when something, anything, brings a glimpse of the dream back into my consciousness. When my hand on a dish held just so will take me back to the moment in my mind and for a second I catch my breath and pause-trying to recall more than a blink of it. But I never can.
My dreams are filled with people I can barely recall, moments I wish to forget, conversations I wish I had, and closure I never got. They follow me to my bedroom and wait for me in that deep, warm cocoon I make for myself every night. Is my mind trying to forge endings where there were none? Or tell me to let go of things that I am still holding on to, if only by a thread? It is hard to say. And if I had to write for you one dream or another from start to finish, to lay it out so that we could dissect it and discover its true origins, or find within the folds what message it has for me, I could not. I am left in the morning with bits and pieces that make no sense, have no pattern, and reveal no secrets.
Much like confetti after a party….
I wake and look around the room for clues, for meaning, for understanding and find there is none. The dream is gone without so much as a waft of dust in it’s wake. I am left with a mood that sinks to my bones and makes itself at home in my mind. I wander and wonder throughout the day, waiting for the clue to reveal itself when I am most unsuspecting.
Perhaps it is a side effect of reading and writing as I do, that I am in fact the one that calls out to these dreams and invites them to join me in my slumber. Maybe as I coax the words out and onto the page, I am coaxing them as well, out of the shadows and recesses of my memories where they lay waiting to be set free?
If that is the case, then so be it. If these dreams are the lost fragments of things I no longer need, that serve no purpose in my subconscious and that I will one day trip over if I don’t shake them free now, then so be it. Let me sleep. Let me write and call to them by name, one by one, until I am left with none. Let me type until my fingers ache. Until they dissipate and drift away with the morning sun rising one last time.
Until my dreams are full of fairies and glitter.