As a young boy, I used to have terrible dreams. I would dream about the wicked witch from the Wizard of Oz chasing after me. I had a dream of getting caught in some type of tractor beam in the kitchen. Some dreams would start out happy. I would dream of playing in the yard, when suddenly the sky would turn black, and a tornado would throw me into the air. I’ve died in many of my dreams. I’ve run away in even more of them. I’ve been attacked, by strangers, other kids, doctors, teachers and principals. But I could never fight back. Punches were ineffective, guns were made of rubber, and melee weapons were uneasy. Bees would often sting me in many of these violent dreams. There was never anyone in my dreams to protect or defend me. I had to be the hero of my own salvation, or die.
I used to dream of being famous as a young teenager. I would dream of being someone popular, with plenty of friends, someone who women would lust over. Someone who could do anything he wanted to because the money never stopped coming to him. Someone who could sing. Someone who could invent. Someone who discovered something that would forever change the course of human history for the better.
These days, I rarely remember my dreams. But I am known to sleeptalk, or say weird things while drifting into sleep, like hearing gunshots or claiming someone’s after me. I wake up in cold sweats on some nights, dazed and confused as to my current surroundings or how I came to be there. My most recent dream was a lucid dream, that of a scene from Star Wars Episode VI, the part where Luke Skywalker discovers Darth Vader’s true identity, then falls to his death, crushed by the sheer horror of the truth that the alleged murderer of his father, was in fact his father. I wrote about the following part of that dream in my notebook, which was more than likely examined without my permission. In the following part of that dream, I played Inception with myself, in that I planted an idea within the deepest part of my subconcious. I said, “Let’s pretend god is real, and now let’s pray… ‘our father who art in heaven, blah blah blah, I’ve been, fuck it, you know how I’ve been, what do I need to do to get out of this shithole?'” The reply was muffled, but was something along the lines of “You know what to do. Go forth and get better, my son.” Then I woke up.
I’m glad I can’t remember bad dreams now. I just wish I wasn’t missing out on the good ones. And I would be tickled pink if I went to sleep tonight, woke up, and it was 1991 all over again.
Depression’s a bitch if Karma is your mother.