I woke this morning on the edge of a dream. I had been giving a workshop, and one of the attendees stormed out saying I was full of crap and didn’t know what I was talking about. Though now I was awake, I tried to recreate the dream to somehow make it end well and give me a reason to dismiss the tears. It seems foolish to cry over things that aren’t real when there is plenty of real pain to cry over.
I dream. I dream every night, all night.
If my dreams came true, people from all my different pasts (and some random strangers and monsters thrown in) would merge, knowing each other.
Kind of like Facebook.
Worlds and times would collide in confusion, and a Canadian farmhouse would land on a California street Wizard of Oz fashion, and rain would pour in the desert . . . well, that is far-fetched!
People you have no interest or current investment in would randomly appear and be mean or loving in turn, and tears would flow and laughter would ring for things that don’t really matter.
But in the ripples of dream-light, somehow they do.
And you have to wonder why all those stored memories in miniature brain compartments leap their boundaries to mingle, producing the oddest story lines that not even a Tarantino could imagine.
Is it therapeutic? I don’t feel better.
Is it manic? Would I know if it was or wasn’t?
Is it meaningless? Most often I would say yes, but then why do I wake up crying?