Dreaming Out Loud
Dreams. A dream. My dream. The unique, magical world that wholly and truly belongs to me and only me. As a society, as friends, we share hopes and wishes for the future, but dreaming is not a group activity.
In the first or second grade, I had the worst dream ever. I was scared that I would never be able to go to sleep again. The dream? Mickie Mouse showed up at my garage door. I was terrorized. But why? How does one explain this dream to be anything remotely horrific? I'll never know. Something about the images presented worried me as I was sleeping and this emotion carried over into my waking state as well. The fact that I still even remember this dream is telling. So, one question:
What is a dream?
Freud is turning in his grave right now wondering how there could possibly still be any question. According to him, dreams are wish fulfillments resulting from repressed sexual desires. And nightmares? Well, repressed anxiety and frustration. Not buying it. Fortunately, students are seen as a way of the future. So I'm turning to Freud's student, Carl Jung. Jung explained dreams as a way of communicating and acquainting ourselves with the unconscious -- a window to the soul, if you will. They allow us to be one with ourselves and achieve wholeness. In a way, a dream is the Mr. Fix-It of the waking life.
While the catalyst of dreams will forever remain a mystery, the catalyst of this entry will not.
The past few months, my sleep has been plagued by a recurring dream. Plagued because it's not a pleasant one. Not one in which my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I find myself face to face with an individual. Common face, common place. It speaks to me. I stare back. I move my lips in preparation to vocalize. My mouth opens and closes. My lips continue to move. But no sound is coming out. My fate is always dependent on uttering those words. Houston, we have a problem. I try again. Desperately try to speak. No sound. I back away. I lose. Dream over. Game over.
I try not to put too much thought into dreams. I just try to be grateful that I've slept long enough to actually dream. But this one's the Mickie Mouse of my young adulthood. The recurrence makes it chillingly uncanny. Less uncanny is the fact that I've picked it apart (remember how I put meaning into everything?).
I shy away from uninhibited expression of my thoughts and feelings. I am non-confrontational and borderline pushover. I'll back down to protect the other. I feel sorry for the loser. I guess at some point we have think of ourselves. Speak up when we're given the chance or forever face complete despair and unhappiness. "That point" really hasn't presented itself to me yet. Maybe the dream is supposed to be convincing me otherwise.
But it always comes down to one doubt: How can you trust a hazy sensory experience that occurs when you're barely conscious?
When it comes to dreams, I can be sure of only one thing. I don't want all my dreams to come true.
In the first or second grade, I had the worst dream ever. I was scared that I would never be able to go to sleep again. The dream? Mickie Mouse showed up at my garage door. I was terrorized. But why? How does one explain this dream to be anything remotely horrific? I'll never know. Something about the images presented worried me as I was sleeping and this emotion carried over into my waking state as well. The fact that I still even remember this dream is telling. So, one question:
What is a dream?
Freud is turning in his grave right now wondering how there could possibly still be any question. According to him, dreams are wish fulfillments resulting from repressed sexual desires. And nightmares? Well, repressed anxiety and frustration. Not buying it. Fortunately, students are seen as a way of the future. So I'm turning to Freud's student, Carl Jung. Jung explained dreams as a way of communicating and acquainting ourselves with the unconscious -- a window to the soul, if you will. They allow us to be one with ourselves and achieve wholeness. In a way, a dream is the Mr. Fix-It of the waking life.
While the catalyst of dreams will forever remain a mystery, the catalyst of this entry will not.
The past few months, my sleep has been plagued by a recurring dream. Plagued because it's not a pleasant one. Not one in which my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I find myself face to face with an individual. Common face, common place. It speaks to me. I stare back. I move my lips in preparation to vocalize. My mouth opens and closes. My lips continue to move. But no sound is coming out. My fate is always dependent on uttering those words. Houston, we have a problem. I try again. Desperately try to speak. No sound. I back away. I lose. Dream over. Game over.
I try not to put too much thought into dreams. I just try to be grateful that I've slept long enough to actually dream. But this one's the Mickie Mouse of my young adulthood. The recurrence makes it chillingly uncanny. Less uncanny is the fact that I've picked it apart (remember how I put meaning into everything?).
I shy away from uninhibited expression of my thoughts and feelings. I am non-confrontational and borderline pushover. I'll back down to protect the other. I feel sorry for the loser. I guess at some point we have think of ourselves. Speak up when we're given the chance or forever face complete despair and unhappiness. "That point" really hasn't presented itself to me yet. Maybe the dream is supposed to be convincing me otherwise.
But it always comes down to one doubt: How can you trust a hazy sensory experience that occurs when you're barely conscious?
When it comes to dreams, I can be sure of only one thing. I don't want all my dreams to come true.
Comments