What Dreams May Come

Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of the week.

~William Dement

I couldn't sleep last night. Being caffeine-free, I couldn't blame the day's beverage consumption. I wasn't particularly preoccupied or stressed out. I was just restless. I was in bed by 11 and tossed and turned until well after 3.

Needless to say, my Sunday plans quickly adjusted to include a wonderful afternoon nap. (No sleep + no caffeine + 8 little preschoolers running around like superheroes = inability to function.)

There was a really strange moment last night as I lay awake in bed, half dreaming though still conscious. I thought someone was smiling at me. Someone very specific whom I haven't seen for quite some time and who, to my knowledge, has never before stood in my doorway and watched me sleep. (What's perfectly acceptable in dreamland would be quite creepy otherwise.) It was the weirdest, oddly reassuring and somewhat jarring feeling. It was so real and so fleeting. And the moment reality smacked me, I felt really alone. Which I was in the first place.

Brains are weird.

And I refuse to read into any meaning behind this midnight stalker.

I hate how I can rarely relive a good dream. I usually only remember fragments as if the short story was told to me second-hand. It's no longer real. It ceases to make sense. I once dreamed the most gorgeous original song. A song that will never be written, because it faded into nothingness the moment I awoke.

I wish I could revisit dreams just long enough to scribble down the hope and beauty my mind escapes to when my body forfeits consciousness. Or to capture the details into a crazy Charlie Kaufman-esque screenplay. Because I'm never that creative when I'm thinking.

Bad dreams stick with me all day. Even when I can't remember them, they tug at me. I'm shaken up, unsure of what's true, and hoping that I'm not really pregnant. Or orphaned. Or on someone's hit list.