More dreams that I can’t quite explain.
There’s usually a point in my scary dream series where particular events happen in sequence and I know the terrible part is coming, kind of like that pending moment in a movie, or a haunted house. It’s inescapable. And it’s always in all of these types of dreams. Only this time, strangely, I knew it was gone. It showed up as a dying old man, a chain of people and living flowers in front of him; in and out, in and out, the whole curving chain of people reacting and responding to the meter of his breath. Once he was gone I waited for the moment to come, but there was just no fear anymore. It was a different kind of dream, instead of the usual unlocked doors and windows that have carelessly been left open with a murderer on the loose in the neighborhood.
I waited for it to show up, and strangely, it hadn’t flown out, or entered me, or manifested itself in anyone else. There was such a peacefulness about it, something that had passed, and it’s happening in real time too, not just in the dream. And now I remember the end more than the beginning; being on a bus that was also a mobile coffee shop, being let off at the driveway to my aunt and uncle’s house and realizing that there was a pile of heavy things that I was supposed to drag down the long driveway.
I told Barry yesterday that I was starting to catch glimpses of myself. Of consciousness? Of being in alignment? It shows up in flashes. The day I quit my job and walked out of Casey’s office, and how I just knew.
Death comes to me in dreams, in stories that take place while I sleep, with flowers and fears and bus stops, and people that are gone having come back a second time, except for the part during the dream where I know it’s their resurrection, even though at the same time it was like they’d never left.
I had dreams about the neglected baby again, except this time it talked to me. I realize writing this down now that I often dream that I’ve forgotten about multiple dogs I’m supposed to be tending to, not feeding them or taking them out for years, yet they remain when I remember. Lori and I learned once that those dreams are your subconscious plaguing you to do your art.
It remains when you remember.
Lately I’m learning that I’ve got a voice that’s been silenced somehow. I have things to say, opportunities in front of me to say them; the world is slowly starting to feel less everyone-against-me and more like I’m walking through the exact trials I should be, more like I’m finding my place.