Unbearably Light
I do not think that word means what you think it means.

Must be dreaming

I’ve always been obsessed with dreams. They were vivid and often reoccurring when I was young; complete with sensory overloads of heat and cold and smells that would hound me for weeks afterwards. I even convinced myself they were predictive at one point. I had a terrifying nightmare that a faceless butcher-type henchman had tried to suffocate me with a pungent rolled up rag, and went mental the next week when my mother bought some new bathroom cleaner that I was *convinced* had the exact same smell. My cousin and I would spend lunchtimes at school lying in the grass recounting the imaginary quests we had been on the night before – sometimes exaggerating for comedic or dramatic effect. These conversations swirled their way into our successive dreams; I would find myself running through her house chased by angry fire demons. They were fuelled by, and consequently fuelled our strange imaginations…detailed down to the sound of the gravel underfoot in our school playground. I was jealous that she sometimes had the ability to know she was dreaming, and would control the protagonists like a gleeful director, at times with fascinating results. If the dream was a reoccurring one that always led to disaster, any attempt to change events would lead to a different but equally bad result.

We weren’t particularly brave or confident at that age, but in our dreams we were powerful and enraged.

I was reminded of that time when I woke up this morning, after a night full of particularly twisted realistic dreams. I’m still on long term painkillers for my geriatric spine, and depending on when I take them, they inject my dreams with the sort of intensity I haven’t experienced since I was a child. In fact, they have been stylistically very childlike too. Last night I was made president of America, but I was scared to climb down from my bed (which was modelled after the one in the children’s story “The Princess and the Pea”) to meet the foreign diplomats because my socks were different colours. When I finally plucked up the courage I was presented with a funky pair of earrings.

I woke up with a vision of the shit cool earrings this morning, and I am actually trawling the net to find something similar. I think I owe it to my subconscious.

I’m also going to call over to my cousin tonight and tell her all about it while we put her baby son to bed and wonder what kind of images are floating around in his beautiful little head.


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