Dreams
I ought to get back to blogging, really. Or, writing something down. The last few weeks have passed entirely too quickly, and without much attempt to gather up the moments and organize them in any worthwhile fashion.
Part of it may be that my time in grad school is nearly at an end, and I’m not at all certain what comes next. I feel like the conversation is wearing out, not only myself, but my usual conversationalists. Part of me wants to wander, and part of me wants to be practical, at last: get a job, house, husband, kids. Part of me still hopes there’s a way to combine it all, that there’s the exact right sequence of events, waiting out there. Just right, for me.
Part of the lacklustre writing (or, really lack thereof), too, is that most of the imagery surrounding me lately is frightening, and I feel vulnerable and insecure—not only about sharing it, but about what the contents mean about me right now. My dreams have been entirely out of whack. More frightening, I suppose, would be considering them ‘in whack.’ In the last seven days, I have seen the world end twice (once by fire and sinking, once by freezing); I have been arrested for hijacking public transit; I have been mocked and ridiculed by those whose affirmation and affection I most desperately seek; I have had to protect children I don’t have, and spouses who aren’t mine; I’ve been thrust into a jet-stream of warfare; I’ve had a beard.
I’m used to having crazy dreams, but not bad ones. I’m sick of waking up, freaked out, upset. My girlfriend is studying dreams right now, and while I used to feign suspicion about the interpretive trends in the psychological world, I’m now at the place where I’m ready to start paying attention to these epics. What is my psyche trying to work out?
