Finally, about dreams
"Why aren't we going faster?"
Every day during my drive home I always think this. Some days are better than others. Some days I am able to occupy my mind on slightly amusing trivial matters instead of the traffic. One time I created a mental list of everything that was wrong with my car, and how I would go about fixing it. Other times I have beared the heat with my windows up and let my music take me home. Last week for two days in a row I thought of how I would use my newly gained 3D programming skills to create a couple games for my friends. But I never fail to get slightly pissed off before trying to cope with the situation. I really can't blame anyone individually. There was an accident today half an exit before Beach, and I decided everyone is a complete fucking idiot. Or rather, the system is completely fucking idiotic. I don't care which one. As long as I have something to get upset about. The human race doesn't seem to want to prevent traffic jams, so why should I worry about it, right? Just fuck it up the ass and nobody'll care.
I threw up as soon as I got home. I hadn't smoked on the drive, and I was relieved to find the family was out somewhere. Thing is, my migraine insisted on preventing me from functioning correctly. So I got some water and opened the cupboard in the kitchen. My mom had half of a vicodin left. I poured it into my mouth, tablet and remaining powder, followed by a half-glass of ice water. Something hit me as if this oven I was standing in front of had clamped over my head and refused to let go. I put the empty capsule back in the cupboard and went to my room to sleep.
I dreamed that I decided I had to use pot to take care of my headache. It was more powerful than vicodin, so why not? Thing is, I haven't had pot in a long time, so I grabbed my pillow and headed out to the streets. I wandered around for quite some time. I recognized some places, such as the quiet street that led to my old town house. Some of the streets were from other dreams, roads that half-made sense as they tried hard to represent something, but ultimately failed in this version. It didn't matter. I soon came upon a nice neighborhood that decided to materialize correctly. The park here was taken from Jonathan's neighborhood, but the street layout and houses were from two other dreams. It didn't cross my mind that this was a trap. All that mattered was this is where I would be.
I hid my pillow in a safe spot in the neighborhood and began browsing the houses. I came upon a place that I thought mine, so I took up residence. To my disappointment, it seemed already inhabited, but no one was home. As it was getting darker outside, the thought of smoking pot slowly crept back into my mind. On the way to the park, I remembered scenes from other dreams, but kept them to myself. There was a lady jogging along the track of dirt that ran through the park. As I watched her, she beckoned to join in, and I think I did for a while. I forgot my troubles and simply passed the time. Later, I returned to find Mark and Ron and their wives living in the house I had chosen. As I sat on a couch and accepted a drink from Mark's wife, she asked me why I was wearing such short pants. I looked down. I gave the same answer I gave to my mother, "It's comfortable." Actually, they were called boxers, at least I was convinced they were; nobody else thought so. But it didn't matter. She was the one whom I had jogged with. If anyone here knew I smoked, it would be her. I tried my best to have the polite conversation I owed my hosts, then decided to split before things got messy.
I have to keep telling myself that impulses I get in dreams are superficial. I can't explain my actions, and I shouldn't have to. I shouldn't be judged by what happens. The story is made up in my mind somehow, and I just play it out. My choices are automatic, and are related to the recent events in my life that are worrying me. My mind tries to remain stable by subduing my troubles through dreams. Thing is, I've been very troubled lately.
In my dream I found myself sitting in the back seat of my mom's van. I assumed we were going to pick up my brother's friend, Alex, from school and drop him off at home. As we drove along, my mom and I bickered as usual about the usual things wrong in life. The street was lined with palm trees, and they stood proud and exotic against the cloudless sky. As turned into the school's neighborhood, I caught out of the corner of my eye an inconsistency. I didn't fully know what it was until I pointed it out to Alex on the ride home. One of the palm tree tops was separated from its trunk. Not only was it hovering slightly in the air, but also seemed to be on fire. Alex disregarded this abnormality and continued his conversation with my siblings. That was weird. We drove along and the sky grew darker. I pointed out that a news helicopter just passed overhead, then an army transport chopper. Nobody cared. We were all on the train, and the now multiple fiery floating palm trees were unimportant to our movement. I knew someone must have done something wrong, and I immediately went over what I did that day and what just happened. A sense of urgency prompted me to notice a uniformed soldier had entered our compartment. Nobody around did anything as he walked toward us. I finally knew what was wrong. I had forgotten, and I would pay for it.
I was on my feet and so was my mom. My first concern was my sister; it always was and it always will be. When something is wrong, I have complete authority over her, and she listens to me. Big brother Matt never talks to me, so when he does, I better listen, because it's important and essential. She understands this about me. In fact, I wouldn't doubt she understands our family's failing relationship with each other. If only she could tell me about it and help fix things. But that would come later. "Come here," I said in my important commanding tone. This was life or death, and so she moved, guided by me, into the gap between the seats where the door was. I turned, expecting my mom to be protecting my brother if necessary, but I knew it was too late. I covered my sister's ears and my mom's screams of agony and sharp pain filled the compartment. No cries for help, no words of retaliation, no sense of loss or regret, just an everlasting shriek surrounded my ears and heart as I watched the soldier close the sliding door to the gap between the compartments behind them. I knew he used a knife, and I knew she was not coming back. My brother didn't though. "Don't open that door!" I yelled at him. My mom yelled the same thing, at the same time too, as she appeared beside me. My brother looked at me, not seeming to notice the apparition beside me. I didn't waver my eyes from his. He turned and started to slide open the door.
And then I must have realized my headache was gone, so I woke up. It was 10:53pm. I had to tell someone my dream, and that someone had to be my mom. I had to tell her I was sorry I argued with her so often. I had to tell her that I did drugs more often that she thought. I had to tell her that everything was going to be alright.
"There's dinner in the fridge. Oh, and there's some strawberries and plums too if you want some."
"Okay."
I hurried to my room in the middle of microwaving the hot dogs because I was starting to cry.
Every day during my drive home I always think this. Some days are better than others. Some days I am able to occupy my mind on slightly amusing trivial matters instead of the traffic. One time I created a mental list of everything that was wrong with my car, and how I would go about fixing it. Other times I have beared the heat with my windows up and let my music take me home. Last week for two days in a row I thought of how I would use my newly gained 3D programming skills to create a couple games for my friends. But I never fail to get slightly pissed off before trying to cope with the situation. I really can't blame anyone individually. There was an accident today half an exit before Beach, and I decided everyone is a complete fucking idiot. Or rather, the system is completely fucking idiotic. I don't care which one. As long as I have something to get upset about. The human race doesn't seem to want to prevent traffic jams, so why should I worry about it, right? Just fuck it up the ass and nobody'll care.
I threw up as soon as I got home. I hadn't smoked on the drive, and I was relieved to find the family was out somewhere. Thing is, my migraine insisted on preventing me from functioning correctly. So I got some water and opened the cupboard in the kitchen. My mom had half of a vicodin left. I poured it into my mouth, tablet and remaining powder, followed by a half-glass of ice water. Something hit me as if this oven I was standing in front of had clamped over my head and refused to let go. I put the empty capsule back in the cupboard and went to my room to sleep.
I dreamed that I decided I had to use pot to take care of my headache. It was more powerful than vicodin, so why not? Thing is, I haven't had pot in a long time, so I grabbed my pillow and headed out to the streets. I wandered around for quite some time. I recognized some places, such as the quiet street that led to my old town house. Some of the streets were from other dreams, roads that half-made sense as they tried hard to represent something, but ultimately failed in this version. It didn't matter. I soon came upon a nice neighborhood that decided to materialize correctly. The park here was taken from Jonathan's neighborhood, but the street layout and houses were from two other dreams. It didn't cross my mind that this was a trap. All that mattered was this is where I would be.
I hid my pillow in a safe spot in the neighborhood and began browsing the houses. I came upon a place that I thought mine, so I took up residence. To my disappointment, it seemed already inhabited, but no one was home. As it was getting darker outside, the thought of smoking pot slowly crept back into my mind. On the way to the park, I remembered scenes from other dreams, but kept them to myself. There was a lady jogging along the track of dirt that ran through the park. As I watched her, she beckoned to join in, and I think I did for a while. I forgot my troubles and simply passed the time. Later, I returned to find Mark and Ron and their wives living in the house I had chosen. As I sat on a couch and accepted a drink from Mark's wife, she asked me why I was wearing such short pants. I looked down. I gave the same answer I gave to my mother, "It's comfortable." Actually, they were called boxers, at least I was convinced they were; nobody else thought so. But it didn't matter. She was the one whom I had jogged with. If anyone here knew I smoked, it would be her. I tried my best to have the polite conversation I owed my hosts, then decided to split before things got messy.
I have to keep telling myself that impulses I get in dreams are superficial. I can't explain my actions, and I shouldn't have to. I shouldn't be judged by what happens. The story is made up in my mind somehow, and I just play it out. My choices are automatic, and are related to the recent events in my life that are worrying me. My mind tries to remain stable by subduing my troubles through dreams. Thing is, I've been very troubled lately.
In my dream I found myself sitting in the back seat of my mom's van. I assumed we were going to pick up my brother's friend, Alex, from school and drop him off at home. As we drove along, my mom and I bickered as usual about the usual things wrong in life. The street was lined with palm trees, and they stood proud and exotic against the cloudless sky. As turned into the school's neighborhood, I caught out of the corner of my eye an inconsistency. I didn't fully know what it was until I pointed it out to Alex on the ride home. One of the palm tree tops was separated from its trunk. Not only was it hovering slightly in the air, but also seemed to be on fire. Alex disregarded this abnormality and continued his conversation with my siblings. That was weird. We drove along and the sky grew darker. I pointed out that a news helicopter just passed overhead, then an army transport chopper. Nobody cared. We were all on the train, and the now multiple fiery floating palm trees were unimportant to our movement. I knew someone must have done something wrong, and I immediately went over what I did that day and what just happened. A sense of urgency prompted me to notice a uniformed soldier had entered our compartment. Nobody around did anything as he walked toward us. I finally knew what was wrong. I had forgotten, and I would pay for it.
I was on my feet and so was my mom. My first concern was my sister; it always was and it always will be. When something is wrong, I have complete authority over her, and she listens to me. Big brother Matt never talks to me, so when he does, I better listen, because it's important and essential. She understands this about me. In fact, I wouldn't doubt she understands our family's failing relationship with each other. If only she could tell me about it and help fix things. But that would come later. "Come here," I said in my important commanding tone. This was life or death, and so she moved, guided by me, into the gap between the seats where the door was. I turned, expecting my mom to be protecting my brother if necessary, but I knew it was too late. I covered my sister's ears and my mom's screams of agony and sharp pain filled the compartment. No cries for help, no words of retaliation, no sense of loss or regret, just an everlasting shriek surrounded my ears and heart as I watched the soldier close the sliding door to the gap between the compartments behind them. I knew he used a knife, and I knew she was not coming back. My brother didn't though. "Don't open that door!" I yelled at him. My mom yelled the same thing, at the same time too, as she appeared beside me. My brother looked at me, not seeming to notice the apparition beside me. I didn't waver my eyes from his. He turned and started to slide open the door.
And then I must have realized my headache was gone, so I woke up. It was 10:53pm. I had to tell someone my dream, and that someone had to be my mom. I had to tell her I was sorry I argued with her so often. I had to tell her that I did drugs more often that she thought. I had to tell her that everything was going to be alright.
"There's dinner in the fridge. Oh, and there's some strawberries and plums too if you want some."
"Okay."
I hurried to my room in the middle of microwaving the hot dogs because I was starting to cry.