I woke up after a series of disorienting and wild dreams. Dreams with long bus routes going in the wrong direction, apartments with unfamiliar people, a strong sense of panic, confusion and loss. I woke up after dreams of my grandmother needing me to set up a shower and my failure to do something so simple… pipes leaking everywhere, failure and chaos. In reflecting now, that seemed to be the theme… an inability to do things right. Failure. I remember a boy who I loved, I remember saying I always ended up with these best friends… boys like Lalo and Juan and Darren. They meant so much to me, mean so much.
This boys name was Chris and he was tall and heavy-set, and I told him I loved him, and I did… but something went wrong and instead I found myself having to love his brother, who suffered from crippling depression, and my friend didn’t trust me to take care of his brother and I knew I was in over my head.
They were strange dreams… not “bad” dreams, as much as strange… anxiety-ridden. Dreams I don’t mind reflecting upon. In my faith, we don’t share our bad dreams… and those with horror, those that make me cry out at night, that make my husband wake me because I’m talking, shouting, weeping in my sleep… those I don’t share. Those remain somewhere inside of me, forgotten to my conscious mind. But these ones, these ones that allow jinn to play the part of people I love… these ones, I don’t mind. Even when I’m failing them and disappointing them… seeing them again, close enough to touch. This is a comfort, and these I’ll ponder upon, these are worth reflecting…
Continue Reading: Journal: Dreams of the Dead & Living Nostalgia.