Emotastic

And yet not... because it's quasi-hopeful.

Ever find yourself swirling in a never-ending sea of thoughts and emotions, moving at such an intense speed that you can barely keep your head above the water long enough to take a breath before being shoved under again and held against your will? And every time you break free you lose another piece of your soul, which has been desperately clutching to reality, to the swells and crushing black oblivion? Yet you keep treading, keep fighting, even when you don’t understand why you’re fighting anymore -- because you know, somewhere inside you know, the day will come when the swells will break, the storm will cease, and you may once again see light on the horizon?

Yeah, it’s like that right now.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

Yesterday morning ushered in a new era in dream fascination for me. In the darkness of pre-dawn this morning, I awoke with fading visages of a certain actor-come-timelord from an earlier dream. As I clung to these pleasant thoughts, I rose up the ten inches I must strain to gauge illuminated digits on my clock. Realizing I still had over an hour until wakefulness became necessary, I settled back onto my pillow, facing the ‘no serious thoughts’ side of the bed* and drifted back into slumberland.
I dreamt of a rich court in high season, as an observer not a participant, though I felt that I myself was of noble descent. It was a bizarre Inception sort of moment, feeling like I watched a dream within my dream (when my dream itself felt like reality). The occurrences in this lush scene of aristocracy were of great import, emotion and measure, though I could not recall later the specifics.

The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons

I ‘awoke’ in this dream to an elaborate funeral procession, capped off by the reigning monarch’s son acting as pallbearer-of-sorts. After the seemingly traditional pyre on the beach, the son raced down the dunes to the water with a torch, heaving it into the water to the applause of the crowd.
My relationship to this young monarch was unclear in absolute specifics yet obvious in emotional attachment – from both sides. After the wake we retired into a library or drawing room or some such large, secluded, grand room like the royals have (or I dream they have). We conversed, I consoled, and he confronted me about his father’s past and life. Apparently in this dream his connection to his father, though his only son and heir, was distant to the point of never really knowing the man. Information had only been disclosed to me since his father’s death, which I had not passed on to the son as of yet, out of want to spare him greater stress during the time of mourning. Especially since the father was a decidedly ignoble ruler, and man. Rather than understand, or even respect, my position (and our relationship), the son went on a tear – a torrent of emotion.

The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them;

This is where the dream took on a decidedly Merlin-esque quality as it then became apparent that magic was a very real force in this realm. As the son’s emotions stormed, books came flying off shelves, papers flew about the room, furniture overturned, all with mere gestures from him. He then turned to me, eyes full of despair and pain – not even rage – as he uttered a spell. This spell somehow bound my lifeforce to his father’s spirit so the son could will the father into existence long enough to confront the man.

All earth was but one thought--and that was death

I shit you not readers, I felt this ‘spell’ as I have never felt any dream in my life. I half-woke to feeling as though my essence and half my internal organs were being ripped from my body. Within seconds I was awake, though barely conscious as the pain still reverberated through me. I was actually crying.
And yet… I felt tied to this dream. To the extent that I willed myself back to sleep to find some reconciliation to this physical and mental horror.

The father emerged, detailing his reprehensible exploits to the son and begging not only for forgiveness but for his son to remedy the mistakes made by his father’s rule. He then went on to chide his son for using the magic he did to conjure the father because of the damage it was wreaking on me. When the son finally turned to look at me again, his look immediately released the spell and he began to cry. Rushing to my side, he yelled for the court magician. Once arrived, the son continuously begged the magician to heal me, to save me. The magician explained that the spell used was too powerful to allow anything to heal me at the present. He then also chided the young ruler on the perils of using magic out of anger and pain and the damage it could cause. He warned that because of this damage not only might I never fully recover my former self, but I may never forgive him for exacting such pain on me – his best friend and his betrothed. The last bit that I recall as actual dream was the young man crying, apologizing in the most animated language for his betrayal and professing his true affection for me. The magician then sent him out of the room so I could be tended to, and at that point I was awake yet still continuing the story in my head.

I have never, ever experienced such a physical, visceral reaction to a dream... and damn was it terrifying and exhilarating. What can I say? I'm a dream masochist.



*Yes, recently I have needed to designate that when facing a certain direction while in bed, no serious life thoughts are allowed. This has become slightly successful and led to marginally better sleep patterns. Sometimes. Ish.

Culpability

March is over -- and this is my 100th post. WHEW!

Can’t say April is anything to sing about yet, what with the insanity of moving and taxes and all, but having the beast of burden that is March behind me (and the hell that is August well in front) lightens my spirits a bit.
I did not ‘win’ NaNoEdMo, however I hit just over the halfway mark and am damn proud of myself. It’s amazing what 25 hours of editing actually feels like. Feels like climbing a never-ending mountain of perils and doubts with your bare hands is what it feels like. Thus, even reaching the halfway plateau gives you a damn good view (so long as you don’t keep glancing upward at what’s still to come).
In related writing news, I attended another worthy ‘coaching’ session this past weekend which, even with the ‘AHHHHHHHHH!’ of moving hanging over me at the moment gave me another healthy dose of confidence, measurable goals, and a list of to-dos which seem pressingly daunting right now – kind of like the boxes piled up around me in my abode, looming over me as I continue to pack more of them. Yet the list also gives me items to be accountable for and goals to work toward that, while intimidating, never seem out of the realm of possibility (especially when talking with my excellent coach).
Though I’m hanging back on many of these tasks until after some of this moving insanity is wrapped, some of them even incorporate into moving which makes moving seem a little less like a futile exercise in attempting to grow up and carve out new sections in my life, and more like a way of expanding some of the things I love doing and creating a newer, better space in which to do them.