I used to believe that our night dreams were reflections of our true, inner selves. That they somehow conveyed secrets that weren’t easily passed through unwilling lips. Then I began to realize that the dreams that I had once held as prediction of future self were nothing more than a soothsayer’s $5 guess based mostly on my reaction to key questions.
The foretelling of my dreams has no place in the photo realism of everyday life. For in my dreams, I am as likely to be killed as kill, to win the Nobel Prize as to take a permanent slot at the local battered women’s shelter.
For in my dreams, I feel boundless; the common laws of physics have no more importance to me than the GDP of St. Helene—the place that Napoleon was exiled.
St. Helene is, in my musings, paradise rather than dismissal isolation seen as a befitting banishment for a tyrant; whose mental afflictions, I suspect, aren’t far from my own.
In my dreams, I have no political or religious affiliation; not simply because I am opposed to any one side, but merely because the idea of alliance had never occurred to me.
Then, exactly six to eight hours after it first happened it ends. Then suddenly, I am, shocked into the mournful reality of functioning existence. Monday through Friday I am able to silence the heed of the “greater cause” at 10-minute intervals. Two or three times later, I rush from paradise and suddenly realize that I have a mere 15 – 23 minutes till I need to start my forced morning run.
Worse than the New York City or Boston Marathons, whose entry is, in practical terms at least, strictly by personal choice or passion, my run yields me, if fortunate, the chance to feed myself yet another day. If “it” all works out, that fortune may extend, in time, to the ability to feed my sorrowful husband and miserable children.
I find comfort in the reality that I see on TV. For, in my dreams, I live a quite more romantic existence than most likely is legally possible on this plane of existence. I relegate my life to 16 to 18 hours of bounded singularity while my real world awaits me – a blink of an eye away.
The foretelling of my dreams has no place in the photo realism of everyday life. For in my dreams, I am as likely to be killed as kill, to win the Nobel Prize as to take a permanent slot at the local battered women’s shelter.
For in my dreams, I feel boundless; the common laws of physics have no more importance to me than the GDP of St. Helene—the place that Napoleon was exiled.
St. Helene is, in my musings, paradise rather than dismissal isolation seen as a befitting banishment for a tyrant; whose mental afflictions, I suspect, aren’t far from my own.
In my dreams, I have no political or religious affiliation; not simply because I am opposed to any one side, but merely because the idea of alliance had never occurred to me.
Then, exactly six to eight hours after it first happened it ends. Then suddenly, I am, shocked into the mournful reality of functioning existence. Monday through Friday I am able to silence the heed of the “greater cause” at 10-minute intervals. Two or three times later, I rush from paradise and suddenly realize that I have a mere 15 – 23 minutes till I need to start my forced morning run.
Worse than the New York City or Boston Marathons, whose entry is, in practical terms at least, strictly by personal choice or passion, my run yields me, if fortunate, the chance to feed myself yet another day. If “it” all works out, that fortune may extend, in time, to the ability to feed my sorrowful husband and miserable children.
I find comfort in the reality that I see on TV. For, in my dreams, I live a quite more romantic existence than most likely is legally possible on this plane of existence. I relegate my life to 16 to 18 hours of bounded singularity while my real world awaits me – a blink of an eye away.
posted by Aki at
10:25 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home