And It Will Stay With You

Lately I seem to blog late, late at night when I’m either thinking too much or can’t sleep… mainly because I’m thinking too much. Tonight is no exception.

Last night I didn’t fall asleep until 6:20am. Sleep has been a burden. As I posted in my last blog, sleep is scary, and really, it is for me. At least recently. The past two days. Lately I feel like Anne Frank—thank you for telling me to read that, if you’re still reading this—blogging my personal life rather than things I’ve written. But writing is writing and learning to be more open and all those good things.

Last night I really didn’t want to fall asleep. I attempted to fall asleep to music, hoping it would somehow stop my dreams, but I couldn’t fall asleep using that method. And last night I did dream, but the dreams didn’t bother me. They had nothing to do with me or my life, thankfully. They were just my usual nonsensical awesome dreams.

But the night before, as I mentioned, I dreamt, and I’m not exaggerating to say that the dream was devastating. Before I called it a nightmare, but I don’t think I should. It wasn’t a frightening dream by normal standards, and nothing bad happened in it. No ghouls or ghosts or aliens and whatnot.

But you know when you’re trying to extinguish a fire and it won’t quite burn out? And you’re like hey, fire, why aren’t you burnt out by now, shouldn’t you be cold coals and ash and not flames? Oh wait, now you almost are…but oh fuck, shit, fuck fuck fuck fuck shit, fuck shit, the flames are now huuuuggggeee because of this crazy-ass fucking dream and now I can never extinguish these flames! It’s like that. You think the fire is extinguished, and then your subconscious lights it aflame again, and you find yourself in a state of fucked-uppery.

So, today, at work, all I could do was think and try to understand my current state of life, and for the first time in…years I think, I was actually angry. Legitimately angry at my mind for seemingly working against me, for bringing such vivid and breathtaking and destructive dreams to reality. Because the dream was that real. Reality.

But maybe the anger is misplaced, or even unneeded. I put credence into dreams, perhaps more than I should. Let’s face it. We’re all fucked up. We, as people, are fucked up. So maybe I shouldn’t even trust my own thoughts, or what I’m trying to make myself think. Maybe my subconscious knows best, knows me better than I know myself, and is showing me the truth through dreams.

Because this has never happened to me before, ever, and I really can’t shake it or begin to explain what feel like inadequacies and shortcomings on my part. When I think I’m good, really good, I fall asleep and dream the most vivid and memorable dreams I have ever dreamt. Beautiful dreams. So beautiful.

And it ruins part of me.

And revitalizes part of me.

And I don’t know what to think or do or how to act when I’m always so good at controlling everything in my life.

So I just stop thinking, or caring, at least on the outside.

So I think I’m just conceding. I can control my conscious during waking hours. I think what I want to think and believe my beliefs. I have fun and enjoy life, etc. I can…look past the past, not forget—never forget—but at least progress.

But it almost feels like none of it matters. I reach a point and I dream again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and it hasn’t failed yet. It brings me back to somewhere I don’t want to be, but to somewhere I really, really want to be, and, again, I don’t know how to explain what’s happening in my own mind.  

I remember reading this somewhere in Italy, I think, when I lived there for a few months. Some artist said it—I forget who—but it resonates. And I’m paraphrasing.

When you see something beautiful, truly beautifully, something that steals your breath and captures you senses, remember it, and store it, and never forget it. For it will be your inspiration, your dreams and nightmares, and it will stay with you forever as part of you.