I am continually amazed at the “stuff” that comes up in my nightly forays into the land of slumber. Do your dreams consist of the strangest things, or is that just my demented brain?
Many people attach great significance to the things that they dream: the people, the objects, the settings and situations, the issues that crop up – even whether you dream in black and white or in color is supposed to have some sort of significance – or so I am told. Dreams are portents of things to come, or the subconscious processing of things that have passed. I hope not.
Jeepers, creepers, I hope not. My dreams are nothing I want to see happen in my future, and many of them are nothing that has every happened in my past, and some of them are just surreal short stories or novel-length aberrations of a twisted reality I’d much prefer, like, and hope to think had nothing whatsoever to do with awake me.
Maybe that’s why I am up so late at night: I am just avoiding joining in the madness that awaits on the other side of waking.
Every day, I hope.
I hope it will get better, that it won’t hurt so much.
I hope that I will be able to slow down and not be at everyone else’s beck and call.
I hope that I can say no. And mean it.
I hope that I can sleep until I want to get out of bed, instead of rolling out every morning before dawn because I have obligations to meet.
I hope that I make it through the next six weeks of no-money until I get paid again (a yearly problem, and January has thirty-one long, cold, and dark days).
I hope that Christmas will again just pass, without requiring from me efforts to be social that I just do not have the resources for.
I hope and I am chagrined that I still hope.
I hope that the house I currently am spending all my free time remodeling (paint smears in my hair and decorating both my forearms, random punctures, scratches, and broken nails) soon will become a respite and sanctuary – a place of peace and repose.
I hope that it will get better – that it won’t hurt quite so much.
I hope, even when it appears fruitless to hope.
exciting and frightening
restless sleep, dreaming of possibilities and terrors
opportunities and nightmares
chances and horrors
ideas and fears
good and bad
time to live it
An ode is a lyrical poem that expresses strong feeling or sentiment for someone or something.
So when I say I don’t want to live without you, that qualifies?
Or, do I have to make it pretty, and dress it up with rhyme and meter
So that it becomes both something more…and less
Than it was before, when I said it all in one sentence?
There are very, very few things humans can’t live without.
Air, water, and curiously, sleep – where dreams rule.
And yes, you are that essential to me.
The subconscious is that primal being living inside of us that does not rise to the surface of our waking awareness. Some of us call it our intuition. Some call it dreams, or visions, things you just “know.” It is that back-of-the-neck hair raising premonition that lets you know something is very wrong. It is instinct. We all have it, but we learn to squash it, and to “logically” override what that ancient knowledge is telling us.
Here lately, for at least the last two months, I have been coming into contact with the subconscious me, who apparently is intent on getting OUT where I will pay it some attention. It is doing this by preventing me from falling asleep – literally trying to verbally communicate with its obstinate host.
As I relax into the arms of Morpheus, and enter that twilight zone just prior to being actually asleep, I am being awakened by a sound, which, when I come fully awake, I realize is ME, making an effort to speak. WTF? Warnings from beyond the pale? I have never (well, virtually) spoken in my sleep.
This happens repeatedly, as many as a dozen times before I finally manage to tip the balance and get to sleep. No dreams in months, just other-worldly phantom speech. This is weird. This is new. Now, admittedly, this is the two-month period when I have been under some considerable stress and uncertainly, changing jobs and moving to a new country, settling in and being ill with my first cold in the new location. I am sincerely hoping that as things settle and a routine develops that the voice from beyond will relax its urgent warnings. I could use the sleep!
I am your prisoner.
I live a free life, I work a job I chose, I live where I picked to live, I associate with the people I choose to be with.
Does not matter. I am your prisoner.
WE lasted a long time. It was a good time, mostly, usually. Except…
now that it is finished, it isn’t finished.
You are there every time I close my eyes to sleep.
You are there when I breathe certain scents.
You are there when I am alone.
You are there…….still.
When do I get paroled?
Most of us don’t think too much about all of our internal workings. As long as they ARE working, that’s usually good enough. We don’t check up on the mechanism too often, until we hit the age of 50 and are introduced to our first joyous colonoscopy experience. Believe me, you will learn far more about your insides than you EVER wanted to know before, during, and after that time.
Last night, I had an intimate dance with my GI (gastro-intestinal) tract. I thought about my insides, literally, all night. All night is a particularly vulnerable time for most humans. We expect to be sleeping peacefully. We don’t expect to be jolted awake from a doze by violent warnings that an eruption is about to take place. Thank GOD, I was not awakened by the notification that a violent eruption HAD taken place. However, the situation was grim enough that I put a towel in the bed under me, just in case. I am talking serious, even inflammatory, issues.
This dark-of-the-night suffering led to an intense personal reflection over the last several day’s activities, in a pathetic attempt to pinpoint what egregious alimentary error was responsible for this nine-hour ordeal I was going through (every twenty minutes), in hopes that I might forever avoid that food if I ever saw it again. I got to repeat this reflection process about twice an hour for the full duration. This problem LAUGHED at Immodium, the anti-diarrhea medicine that usually manages to nip violent food poisoning issues in the bud. LAUGHED. REPEATEDLY.
Thank God for petroleum jelly. I learned THAT trick while undergoing the aforementioned joyous colonoscopy experience. Just wait – your turn is coming……..
and as a helpful. public-service preview of this delightful procedure: http://www.miamiherald.com/2009/02/11/427603/dave-barry-a-journey-into-my-colon.html