March 11, 2011

A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight

A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” Oscar Wilde

"Field of Dreams" by amathal

Some people remember their dreams, others never. Me? I have the odd one or two that manage to stray from my subconscious and into my waking mind. Lately, the dreams I remember, I would prefer to forget. One in particular is still quite vivid and brings up horrible feelings.

I dreamt I was at a carnivale. There were jugglers, lions, fairy floss, popcorn, beared ladies, music, the smell of heat, tall grass and dry, dusty dirt. A surreal yellow haze, like a faded photograph, hangs over the scene and everything happens in slow motion.

Why I'm at the carnivale I don't know. All I can feel is that I'm here to have fun with someone I love. We're going to watch the aerialists in the big top and buy toffee apples. But the day gets colder, and hard drops of rain start to fall on me. My dress has gone from being a summery floral to a drab, grey set of sheets with no colour left.

Then I realise I can't find the person who should be with me. My dream self becomes frantic in movement, my hair comes out its pony tail and streams down my back. I run around looking for my dream partner. Asking mute and blank faces for answers that never come.

I turn to look back at the carnivale and see one last tent. Its colours have not been washed away and little bells are ringing over the opening.

I go inside and a little woman (who my brain dreamt as Emma Thompson) is sitting at a table with tarot cards in front of her. She looks at me and says you're too late. There is only death. There are no rings to bind the two together. The dead are gone and you cannot follow. A gale force wind blows and the woman and the tent are ripped away. I am left standing in an empty field, in the middle of the night, with the remains of some flowers in my hand.

The flowers turn to sand and fall to the ground and it is at this point where I have woken feeling as though I cannot get up to start my day. Feeling as though some part of my life has ended. That I have lost the one thing I love more than anything else. And yet, the world I opened my eyes to was completely normal. Nothing had changed. Everything was as it should be.

It's taken me about three weeks to be okay to write of this dream. Perhaps the dream does not seem that bad. The silly flight of fancy and a cruel subconscious playing with me. I am not worried should you  think that. As horrible as this dream was, I am greatful to it. A dream that lets me glimps ,what I think of as, the storyteller in me is valuable. It confirms that somewhere, a story worth telling lurks. I just need to find the right creative outlet for it.

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