Dreamt

I have a recurring dream. For the last three nights I've dreamt of a test I need to take that I have not yet studied for or a project of some kind that I haven't finished. I'm an adult, in the dreams, with kids and all, but I have to get to school to take the test; I have to finish my project. The common thread that I am faced with every night is that I always end up staring at a blank piece of paper, unable to write anything. I stare at a page of nothing, frozen; the anxiety is palpable. I can hear myself tell myself to just write something, but I am interrupted by someone or my surroundings change or I wake up. And I wake up filled with the same anxiety I had in my dream.

So, brain, what are you saying here? It seems as though maybe I should write something? Is that what you're trying to tell me? My brain is full of fictional yarns I'd like to spin for unsuspecting humans. But, alas, I know I am not yet ready to pull it off. Like it's a con. It is a con. I need to con you into believing this other world exists, these people exist. I need to Keyser Soze you and I'm not ready. It's existential double dutch. I'm watching the ropes turn in front of me, waiting to jump in, waiting and waiting and waiting, my hands up, keeping the rhythm. and I'm watching myself, I'm watching her not jump in. And my stomach twists and my jaw clenches and I think, "Now! Go now,...now...now!"

But she won't,...I won't go.

So what's the cure? Is it the dream? Was it sent to fix me? I mean, self fulfilling prophecy, I'm writing about it. Maybe this was the push I needed. Maybe I jump and rhythm takes over and I am filled with joy and I am jumping and jumping and jumping! Or maybe the ropes crash down on my feet and I look down defeated, and walk away. But then I hear it, the click-click, click-click, click-click. The ropes are turning again. And this time, I'm not as scared.


Allegory of Rhetoric (1650). Artemisia Gentileschi (Italian, 1593-1656)