As if blogging isn't self-indulgent enough all of itself,† I am going to hold this space captive with possibly one of the most boring subjects one person can foist on another: dreams.‡
Oh, I won't get quite that detailed, but I want to know where dreams come from and where they go when they're gone.
[SUMMARY: If the blogpost doesn't work, perhaps I can parlay this into a bad love song.]
I've dreamed, in colour, vividly, almost every night of my life. I don't always remember all the dreams, but I at least awake in the morning with their residue -- maybe an image, maybe an emotion, a bit of a story.
When Mom died, I didn't dream for... I don't remember. Two months? Three?
I almost went out of my fucking tree.
I felt like I was travelling in some weird, alternate universe where trees overhung my every path and very little light made it through to the forest floor. There was metaphorical slime mold§ on my world.
[SUMMARY: Indulge me and my purple prose!]
Then the dreams came back and all was right with the world.
Only, they went away again for a couple of weeks. Just recently.
And when they came back,¶ they came back as gut-wrenching nightmares with a Scooby-Doo quality that might have been laughable if they hadn't been so freakin' frightening.
I'm kinda afraid to sleep at night.
[SUMMARY: In which I spare you the mind-numbing details.#]
Seriously, does anyone know why a person†† would just stop dreaming?
Of course, I'd like to know why the awful nightmares, but I'm willing to chalk that up to toasted marshmallows and vodka or a bad reaction to the DNC.
Why, WHY would my dreams go away?
If they go away again, is there a way to get them back?
[SUMMARY: Bueller? Bueller?]
Does it have anything to do with Bill Gates?
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And honey, you don't know self-indulgent until you see what I'm going to hit you with next week.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): 'Cause, y'know... "Well, I was me, only I wasn't me, I was Penelope Cruz, but she had blonde hair... I mean, I had blonde hair, anyway... Bill Gates had developed this software that allowed unicorns to be cloned, only they weren't unicorns like we know, they were more like seahorses with spikes and y'know I just knew they were unicorns even though they weren't like the pictures of unicorns in books and everybody in my dream world knew they were unicorns... anyway... and then I was talking to myself in this mirror and Bill Gates turned into Tom Cruise and... wait, no, Tom Cruise married Bill Gates... no, wait... PENELOPE Cruz married Bill Gates, only it was me, only he was a unifish thing, except..."
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Don't get me wrong, slime mold is hella-cool, but not necessarily the metaphor you want for your daily living.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Friday night. At the lake. Of which I will have pictures tomorrow.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Only I have to tell you that 911 lady in my dream was NO help.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): i.e. -- Me. This is, after all, self-indulgent.