Dreams and Themes
Maybe this is why I write the way I do.
Shaking off the dregs of yet another bad dream. Been having them a lot lately. But the funny thing, or not funny, but interesting, is that in many ways my dreams follow the same patterns or engage the same themes as my stories.
-My nightmares almost ALWAYS involve cycles.
-My nightmares are almost never "boo!" type scary.
-And for some reason, lately, they always involve bodies, especially ones I'm not positive are dead.
From my dream journal:
I am in a house on the second floor.
There is a boy in the next room over, maybe 12 years old.
There is a sound downstairs.
We come out into the hall as the door below opens (it shouldn’t be unlocked).
The boy goes down to see. He doesn’t come back.
I shut the door to my room.
Then I am at a kind of concert.
The lights go out and the people, whom I know, begin to sing.
The lights come on and they are all dead. But standing, empty eyes and bloodstained.
I am holding the weapon, a sword, but it is dull and I try to prove I could not have done it, by stabbing someone in the chest.
The blade goes in maybe an inch or two and stops.
See? I say. It couldn’t have been me.
I look into the empty eyes of the singers with slit throats.
I blink and I am in the room in the house on the second floor.
There is a sound downstairs.
The boy and I come out into the hall as the door below us opens.
Shaking off the dregs of yet another bad dream. Been having them a lot lately. But the funny thing, or not funny, but interesting, is that in many ways my dreams follow the same patterns or engage the same themes as my stories.
-My nightmares almost ALWAYS involve cycles.
-My nightmares are almost never "boo!" type scary.
-And for some reason, lately, they always involve bodies, especially ones I'm not positive are dead.
From my dream journal:
I am in a house on the second floor.
There is a boy in the next room over, maybe 12 years old.
There is a sound downstairs.
We come out into the hall as the door below opens (it shouldn’t be unlocked).
The boy goes down to see. He doesn’t come back.
I shut the door to my room.
Then I am at a kind of concert.
The lights go out and the people, whom I know, begin to sing.
The lights come on and they are all dead. But standing, empty eyes and bloodstained.
I am holding the weapon, a sword, but it is dull and I try to prove I could not have done it, by stabbing someone in the chest.
The blade goes in maybe an inch or two and stops.
See? I say. It couldn’t have been me.
I look into the empty eyes of the singers with slit throats.
I blink and I am in the room in the house on the second floor.
There is a sound downstairs.
The boy and I come out into the hall as the door below us opens.