Sweet Dreams

In an effort to battle some strong bouts of writer’s block, I’ve taken to writing some dreams down. I think a lot about my dreams, when I have them. I’ve tried at times lucid dreaming with aid from meditation, practice, and insistence on its absolution.

“Dreams are a part of my life. I sleep more than half of my life away—I need something to show for that part of me, too. I want to control it, live a second life when I hit the pillow. Dreams also account for my time on this planet, and they have to matter, too.”

I did this for a few months and it was exhausting. I would meditate before sleep for 25-30 minutes, lie down, and do it again into sleep. Before sleep, I’d try to physically feel the relaxation of my body while telling myself “your eyes are relaxed, your mouth is relaxed” and farther down my body until I nodded off.

It’s raining and I’m waiting it out under a rusted metal awning on a bicycle. The rain is loud against the metal but I’m patient, watching it fall into an endless field around me, a breathtaking landscape under grey clouds or blue sky. I can’t think of anywhere I need to be and I don’t feel any restraint, just happy to watch the rain while remaining dry.

When it settles and the sun clears the sky, I take off on the bicycle without realizing it’s attached to a wagon of people. I’m riding towards mountains in the distance as the passengers talk amongst themselves in the back. I try speaking a few times, but something prevents me. I don’t feel silenced, or negative in any way, just overcome by how beautiful I’m finding everything around me. I pick myself off the seat and ride while standing, pick up speed and feel the wind, sprinkles of rain from the grass splashing my face.

When we come to a mountain in the distance, we can either go left or right; neither of which are places I’ve been. I veer to the left and a passenger leans into my ear, “There was a nice spring the other way.”

“I’ve been working hard all day, my legs are sore.” I respond.

There’s a small path to follow, a groove of dirt that divides the fields of grass. While riding long, thin perennials begin to pop up around the bicycle and wagon. They brush against my legs, the wagon, the passengers. I’m desperate to take a picture, pull out my phone while riding, and take a few. I quickly look at them to make sure they aren’t blurry, but they haven’t taken at all. I’m disappointed but decide to try and take it all in; remember as much as possible.

“Can I see your pictures?” One of the passengers asks.

“It didn’t take any, I don’t know why.”

The passenger takes my phone and thumbs through the photos.

“What do you mean?” She says, “They look beautiful!”

She holds the phone to my face; she’s right. People in the wagon continue talking to each other and I alternate between sitting, riding slowly and lifting up for more momentum. I’m quiet with a soft smile grazing my face. I zig-zag through the field of perennials and am overcome with a sense of fulfillment, relaxation.

I woke up shortly after with sore legs. I closed my eyes again and tried to relive the feelings from that dream, but couldn’t come close. I thought about the dream all day, looked up some meanings for flowers, fields, springs, wagons, and bicycles. Above all, I knew I had done it. I had created a dream world for myself, where I’m most happy. The dream wasn’t meant to be analyzed, it was meant to be experienced in the time it could be, and I did. Though I looked things up and continued with my waking routines, I did so with a new sense of relaxation. A sense of newfound energy. A sense of self.


Author: antbrov

Fiction | Magical Realism | Introspective Write > Edit > Hate > Learn > Write...

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