There are dreams I have no issue talking about, even nightmares. But there are other dreams I can’t enter into discourse about it. I can’t even type the words down. Perhaps that kind of dream surfaces to life in films. Even then… I doubt that I have seen anything like tonight’s dream. The night is neither cold nor warm. It’s perfect. Ideal for a nice long night of sleep—much needed I have to clarify.
Nightmares come and go. They disappear and leave me alone for short periods of time. As a person, nightmares are a problem. As a writer, I think of it as a peculiar gift. I have an opportunity to apprehend bizarre dreams beyond imagination. However, their tacit meaning or interpretation lingers with me all day long. I beg God at times to allow a sweet sleep or a dream with a blank screen playing all night long. It’s as if He believes my nights are indefatigable. They’re not, my Lord. I am reluctant to return to my sleep.
Such dreams bring me restless nights. My heavy eyes and fogged mind battle with wakefulness. I am beyond happy that I am in a state of alertness. How can I attain an auspicious night, dream, or a blank screen? How do I know my unspeakable vision does not have a sequel planned for when I return to my sound sleep? My dreams coerce me in the middle of the night. I am left destitute of any form of tranquility—beginning the morning on my left foot—in agitation, anxiety.
Worrisome thoughts reside in my mind all day long—trying to seek an answer to the dream. What does it mean? What does it mean? But I have to act firmly to convince myself that I am strong. That I am confident. That I can shake these thoughts off. That they will not conquer my mind.
`The incredulous with condescending amusement say, “You watch too much television,” “You read too much,” “you need counseling,” or “you have a wild imagination.” Perhaps all those may be true, except the television part. Is that a reason to belittle my fears, anxieties, and those compelling and horrific dreams that only a cruel person would pass down? Many pass down folktales, myths, and stories to fight for their culture. To pass it on to their children and their children’s children. But these stories I cannot pass on.
I can only give you my thoughts. I will not depict the setting, the character, or the climax of this unfathomable dream. It’s simple and concise: they are only my thoughts. My feelings. I have no time for an active imagination. I have no time for fiction. No time or space enough in my mind. Only words. My dreams have done enough of it as it is, so I simply stare at the white screen. Black letters appearing right before my eyes. I don’t wish to scan my environment. I don’t want to add subtext. Terrible writer? Then so be it.
Am I a selfish writer? Perhaps. More like a poor writer, some will perchance argue. “Show us. Don’t tell us.” But I have already told you I cannot pass on this horrific night. It shall stay in words. Words appearing right before my eyes. My fingers beating the keys of the keyboard eagerly writing as much as I can, like a talker who cannot be quiet. You politely listen to such a person, right? Please, heed my words. Forget the plot. Forget the character. Forget the setting.
Read my words. Stare at that blank projector with me. It is much greater than those horrific dreams. You don’t understand. My eyes cannot go awry. I must keep typing. Hear my thoughts. Close your eyes. Add a baritone voice. Add a tenor voice. Add a bass. Add an alto. Add a soprano. Let them all in a legion tell you my words. I’m the conductor. Writing. Telling you what to read. What to see. Or not see. What to exclude. Add your character. An old man. An old woman. A young man. A young lady. Use your imagination. But add the legion of voices to read all these words.
No, no these dreams aren’t a gift. I almost chuckle ironically at the thought. They are a burden. A sleep deprivation. Instigating a moody me. Holding me back for the next day. Bags underneath my eyes. God, please help me. I beg you. Let your sweet and kind nature visit my dreams. And if not, please turn on the projector and leave it blank—white or black. I don’t care. Just leave it blank, please. No imagery. No characters.
No stories. Just blank! I pray in your name, my Lord. My tears are now dry and ancient in comparison to the new ones that will come another night. Please, Lord. Send your angels to protect me, nightmare catchers. I pray, amen. Slowly, I lose the battle with alertness. Ending on a prayer note seems to make sense. At my expense, those dreams live on. But prayer shall help me. An amen shall be like a drop of water on thirsty dry lips. Amen.