dreamlife
The world is full of people with more courage and strength than me. I'm pretty weak, all things considered. In fact, the more things you consider, the weaker I am. I'm very selfish, and I'm also very lazy and shortsighted. I ask myself: if I do this, will I be happier in ten minutes? The answer is usually no. Usually, nothing gets done.
Sometimes I feel inspired, though, and think that I could do wonderful things for myself and the people around me, and I have large ideas, and those ideas are so large and complex that they glow. I still think like an eight year old sometimes. Often. I don't consider feasibility, and I abandon my plans as soon as I lose enthusiasm.
Last night I dreamed that I ate a spider the size of a peach. Ate is the wrong word. Not even swallowed. It's more like the spider crawled into my mouth and then down my throat, and there was no interruption to my breathing, and I didn't taste anything. There was no danger, no panic, no disgust. I just opened my mouth to speak and then the spider was inside of me, alive, and I knew it was there the same way I know my heart is there, even though I couldn't feel it. I've had this dream a few times.
I'm not afraid of spiders, though I don't feel any fondness for them.
I used to dream about elephants. In my most vivid dream, I was standing at the opening to a great dark space and air was spiraling over and around me, like a funnel. Things fell forward: desks, boxes, books, newspapers, all of the typical debris from a tornado movie. Then an elephant fell past, spiraling as it was drawn in just as weightlessly, and it reached out but I didn't know to reach for it. It made a mournful, trumpeting sound and I woke up, room just as dark, the only demarcation between the dream and the waking being a lack of wind.
I thought that I should become an elephant. I did, for a while. That was seven years ago. Maybe now it's time to be a spider.
Sometimes I feel inspired, though, and think that I could do wonderful things for myself and the people around me, and I have large ideas, and those ideas are so large and complex that they glow. I still think like an eight year old sometimes. Often. I don't consider feasibility, and I abandon my plans as soon as I lose enthusiasm.
Last night I dreamed that I ate a spider the size of a peach. Ate is the wrong word. Not even swallowed. It's more like the spider crawled into my mouth and then down my throat, and there was no interruption to my breathing, and I didn't taste anything. There was no danger, no panic, no disgust. I just opened my mouth to speak and then the spider was inside of me, alive, and I knew it was there the same way I know my heart is there, even though I couldn't feel it. I've had this dream a few times.
I'm not afraid of spiders, though I don't feel any fondness for them.
I used to dream about elephants. In my most vivid dream, I was standing at the opening to a great dark space and air was spiraling over and around me, like a funnel. Things fell forward: desks, boxes, books, newspapers, all of the typical debris from a tornado movie. Then an elephant fell past, spiraling as it was drawn in just as weightlessly, and it reached out but I didn't know to reach for it. It made a mournful, trumpeting sound and I woke up, room just as dark, the only demarcation between the dream and the waking being a lack of wind.
I thought that I should become an elephant. I did, for a while. That was seven years ago. Maybe now it's time to be a spider.