I have this reoccurring feeling that I sleep with someone in my arms. Their head resting on my chest, hearing the beating of my heart. We’re home. Together. We are each other’s home.
Maybe it’s just a dream. Maybe it’s something else. It’s one of the few things that comfort my sad heart. I hope, if they are real, it comforts them too.
I just had the worst dream.
I sometimes dream of other paths I could have taken, other words I could have said.
And I dreamed we were deliriously happy. Because I’d said the right thing in the right way. I did not spin out. Wasn’t depressed, so I said the thing that made all the difference. In the dream you were looking at a sign that said 67 or 62 miles to Phoenix. Whatever I’d said got you moving towards me like two magnets with an irresistible pull. I’d love to know what I said. I’d say it now. Even knowing that now is probably too late.
I dreamed of a young seeker approaching a sprawling mansion complex. To call it a mansion is to call the Marianas trench a hole in the ground
I had prior dreamed of the approach to the mansion of lives lived that brought the seeker to this place. Of people they had been and had since forgotten as one life bleeds into the next.
The seeker must answer a math problem. The math problem is one of rounding but in a system of math that is not often used and the numbers are different from base 10.
The seeker, a woman, fails twice. So flustered by the foreign experience. I fear I influenced her and instead of trying a third time we held the keypress that would generate the infinity symbol.
I sensed that the seeker had been here before and she was able to get in normally prior. When the symbol was entered a number of options was shown. Normal entrance included. But information and other experiences as well. The various rejection possibilities, the death possibilities, in addition bits of legendary knowledge, actual curated data on things that have never been but might be again.
The seeker chose a normal entrance.
But I was not the seeker. I was an observer behind her eyes. No I was the man she was going to see. A version of me. A version who had plundered his dreams and acquired wealth and knowledge. Both things I enjoy. And still he was profoundly unhappy. This permeated the whole complex. Lush gardens and miniature rainforests, paintings stolen from museums and replaced by facsimiles, beauty abounded. And still the man, a version of me, was empty.
I am describing a bare portion of everything. It was a whole world and it now sits behind my eyes.
I had a nightmare
It was a dream I’d had before, in some variation. I was walking in my parents backyard. I was talking to some people who I had the impression that they were family. We were trying to get to the house because the house was safe. Safe from what, I didn’t know. We were running away but before we did that we had tried to fight. As ninjas this time for some reason. We failed time and again until the only option left was to run. So we ran and we had made it to outside parents house. But it’s in a place where I have always had the feeling it was hungry. When I was young, the nightmare was that animals or bugs carpeted the ground and every time I tried to cross it I’d almost get devoured. This time there was a thing in the shape of a man standing by a tree that had no business being there. We were resting and it was searching for a way in, almost like it was trapped. Eventually it pushes its way into the world/area we were at. Part of that was I taunted it for some reason. I don’t remember why but it invaded and turned into a raving ravenous creature. It cut through us and the only thing left was to run. We were almost home but it was too far, and everyone but me fell. All alone I make the door and slam it shut. The turn the bolt but it fails to strike home and I get the sense that this is where I died previous times. But I am lucid dreaming at this point and I slam the bolt home. The thing is screaming and raving outside, talking about what bits it wants to eat. But I control the dream and I cage it in light. Again I get the impression that this had failed on prior occasions, but this time the cage is strong enough. This time the being is destroyed. I sever it’s ties to the yard and make the area inhospitable to creatures of its kind. Then I wake up
Yesterday I was eating lunch on a terrace garden with people who felt like they were from work but I didn’t recognize them. My friend Reese came by for some reason and I escorted him under my workplace to some kind of underground labyrinth. There was a sand pit filled with tiny snakes, a room that didn’t look like anything that had a spiral staircase leading down. My friend remarked that this place seemed normal. I looked over my shoulder to a guy I know from work, RJ, and say that’s because RJ has the master key to turn the traps off.
In this room you normally have to weave past poison darts shooting out of the walls.
I felt uneasy like it was the presence of RJ and not a key that kept us safe. Like he was the key. We wandered down into a underground gallery with columns and flying buttress’. It was all empty but like the walls were holding something back.
I haven’t been able to shake that dream for 2 days
Had a dream where it was new years at the house locale and for some reason I was setting up a TV and stereo speakers. I was all set but my older sister was moving in with me for some reason and she thought she had a better way. So I said Ok and let her try. She set it all up but the sound was coming out tinny. So, while she was off doing something, I setup the system back to working. The dream shifted and I was in a armies camp on the move. I was with someone I cared about, whose opinion I cared for. And I remember looking at my foot and seeing it discolored and they saw the discoloration and were disgusted. So I began peeling the skin off and removing the nails. It was about a 2 or 3 on my pain scale. Putting it in perspective, a broken elbow is only a 4 and a tweaked can barely move back is a 5 or 6. Pain and I are familiar lovers.
After removing the skin and nails and wiping up the blood, this person was looking on disgusted. And I just gestured and said, see, good as new.
Just sitting around at 4 in the morning, unable to sleep. Or rather I did sleep for about an hour. But then my dream turned all creepy, with the door to my bedroom open, which it never is. And murmuring voices right outside of it. And I kept getting up to close it only to find myself back in bed, looking at the open door. After about 15 tries and rising panic, I managed to force myself awake. So I get to deal with that panic and being bone tired but kinda afraid to go back to sleep. And wondering if this is real, as all of the trapped in my dream effects cause this disjunction in what seems real.
I dreamed of many things but primarily of a woman who would get caught in a world of words. Get lost in them. In the dream, I met her on a trip. It was the mountain dreamscape. A natural and wild area. I was camping and she was out in the wilderness and we shared a fire. It was cold, so we shared a chair next to the fire. Her snuggled in my lap. Her head against my heart.
The dream shifted to a woman telling a story about how she sometimes fell into a world where words would send her spinning. Where the words themselves become a world and she feels like she is fighting to get clear. To get home. And it’s like I’m riding along in her mind. I can see all of this, the fight and the journeys that take lifetimes and moments. That seems like pauses where she gets lost and is inattentive but really she is struggling with everything she has to get back.
Then I’m watching her give a talk about a book she’s written about the experience of her affliction and I find she has dedicated the book to me.
And the dream shifts and we’re in bed, my real bed complete with too many pillows and crimson sheets. And I turn to her and say, “Really? I really mean that much, help you that much that you want the world to know?”
She says, “of course, you keep me in the world. When you are here, I rarely slip away and rarely for long. And I remember that night on the ridge when you didn’t know me but you shared your fire and warmth.”
I say, “I love you, you are mine.” she smiles like I’ve given her the best news and we hold each other. Then I get up to get ready to go to work. But I’m waking from the dream and I don’t want to. I return to bed and hold her. She says, “I thought you were going to work.” I say, “I don’t want to leave here.” and I break and say “please, don’t leave me. Please, stay. Please.”
Then I wake completely. And she is gone. And I am crying.
I dreamed last night. In the dream, I and a few friends were walking down to this abandoned house. The outside was unfinished. Like they had been adding framework around it but the project had been abandoned. This house down in a valley that was this sprawl. Partially constructed, partially falling in. The house is in the no man’s land between the dreamscapes. I know it is not ‘near’ the city. I think it is upwards from the highway and leftwards from the school. Which makes it adjacent to the home and a shift spin from the mansion or hotel.
The house feels like it was just abandoned. Like at any moment, the owners and residents may come back. Which is frightening. Because the owners were members of a cult that was trying to break the walls of reality. Which was possible here at this place of meeting and nothingness. We break into the house, or I remember forcing our way in but not the actual breaking in part. We find ourselves in a series of rooms centered around a vast library. Books fill to the ceiling. Hardcover books by authors I’ve read but books they never wrote in our world. Some they never got to write due to their death. Some whole series that were conceived but never committed to page. Unspoken books. Hidden books. Books written by the heart but that never fell from their lips. Books everywhere. Books in modern dust jackets
One of my friends finds a book unlike the others. A handstiched leather bound book. A memoir of one of the people who lived here. A famous man. A black man who had never had a white friend or acquaintance. I don’t know why that was important but it was. He spoke of living here how they were living simple lives here but that occasionally one or more of the people would go mad and kill themselves or others. He accepted that as the price of living here. He said it was fine because his door locked. But he grew disillusioned with the work. The barrier was breaking but what was leaking through was not what they expected. It was ominous and evil. His term. One he didn’t use for the murders that took place here. As if those were small things by comparison with this thing that was breaking through.
The books weren’t here when he was here. But it slowly dawns on us. The books are a barrier. They are the price of seeing and the cost of dreaming. Of taking pieces of the dream and giving it to the world. Some dreams, some thoughts are sacrificed here. To keep the barrier strong. To hold back the tide with the ideas and thoughts, found here fully realized. We could read a book here, but could not take it. And when we read, we had to replace the book with one of our own. To keep the barrier intact. One of us stayed there. A keeper. A librarian. A safeguard so that any that came after would know the rules.
I did not wake so much as surface. Marked indelibly by the journey.
So my brain finally figured out something that would scare me and not trigger one of my subconscious tripwires. Which draw me into a lucid dream should a nightmare prove too scary.
It was pretty typical weirdness. A pharaoh brought back to life, filming a movie and not being friends with the extras who didn’t want to be friends with us anyway. A house party, and a snowstorm.
Then I receive a email. A email chronicling the manipulations of the person I’m in love with. The person who (in the dream) is manipulating me. Screwing with my head just because she can. Laughing about how she got my trust. Got into my life. About how utterly foolish I am. About how she got access to my wordpress account.
About my wordpress account being scoured of content.
I rush to check it and I’m locked out. I reset my password and get in and everything is gone. The account isn’t deleted. But everything is gone. Just this barren shell of everything I’ve written and worked on for more than 3 years.
Then I forced myself awake and it was one of those times where I kept waking but not up, just into another dream. Making it particularly horrible.