I dream the following thought: I’m afraid to talk, but I’ll write.
Which isn’t true, but isn’t exactly untrue.
Writing about dreams is often challenging for a number of reasons. Sometimes a dream can be so abstract, it isn’t worth following or even sharing. We can read as much Jung as we want, but I rarely understand what my unconscious mind is trying to communicate to my conscious mind.
For example, last night I dreamed I watched a girl pose on the fourth floor railing of a stairwell. The room was entirely made of white oak, from the floors to the dome ceilings. How did she hold herself up on the skinny railing for the pose? Her body stretched out, hand in chin. She didn’t. I watched her lose her balance and plummet dramatically, and peeked over the edge to see the gruesome result, while being semi-aware she was still alive and wailing.
What the fuck?!
I’ll ignore my concerns and proceed with a more gentle dream. (My city, my dream journal?)
I’m in a bookstore in a small coastal town. Dark thunder clouds sit low over the water, so close it feels like the sky could exhale and we’d all disappear. The windows rattle softly with wind, and I like it. Inside, dim light only lives in certain corners, and dust hangs in the air, suspended, listening.
I’m searching for a copy of Bleak House (which I’d never finished in my waking form) and ask the shopkeeper for help. He gestures, and I walk to a shelf where every spine is frayed and thinning. I trace my index finger along them. The covers feel both smooth and coarse.
“Retained.” I whisper it to myself.
I suspect he’s assessing me with a wryness I covet when he finally says, “I liked the way you saw me.”
“Liked?” I turn, and he is somehow softer and sharper outside of how I’m conditioned to see him. My smile breaks wider at this.
His confidence is thrilling as he reaches for my wrist (half amused, half fond) only to say, “Sleep. Go to sleep. You’re nuts.”
I wake, my hand curled as if still holding a book, the memory of a thumb pressing against my pulse.
(Daily Writing 105)