Recurring dreams or nightmares are a phenomena that hasn’t plagued this daydreamer in quite some time.
Recently, the norm shifted. I’ve been having a string of nightmares that would make some psychiatrist’s mouth water.
They take place in some dolled-up version of what used to be the dining room in my old home. I’m sitting at a dinner table with (for lack of better terms) —a bunch of dead people.
Some of the people sitting there are relatives; some friends. All of them are people that have passed on. Yet there I am, sitting amongst them, trying to start a conversation.
At first, no one sees me. No one hears me. Then a few make kind, but robotic remarks. As I sit there, trying to make sense of it, everyone’s faces and bodies start to deteriorate. Their flesh starts to decay. Everything sort of falls off, bits and pieces of them falling onto the table, into the food.
I back away from the table slowly, stumbling in shock and terror and run away screaming. As I bolt through the doorway, I enter a hall that wasn’t there before. The walls and area surrounding are dirty, dank, dreary, rusty and dripping. In the corner is a thinly set man, curled up. I gently tap him to see what’s wrong and he jumps up revealing scars and tattered clothes. He appears tortured and beaten. He is frightened beyond consolation. He screams, and I wake up.
I don’t know what it all means.
Perhaps death is weighing heavy on my mind due to loss and my own physical health decline.
Whatever it all means, I drew the man I see there last night.
Maybe if I get it all out they can rest. Maybe my mind can rest. I’d like to dig a grave for all of this inner stress. I want to sing it a requiem and be done with it. Though nightmares often aid in my work, this particular set causes me upset in my waking life.
Hopefully my pouring of emotions into the paper can aid my restless psyche. Even if it’s only a teensy bit I’ll be satisfied. Anything’s better than being haunted.