The sheets were at the foot of the bed this morning. I had kicked them off at some point in my sleep, and they were twisted around each other in a way that made them seem anxious. I remembered nothing of my dream.
It was about four hours later that a bit of it returned to me. Not enough to bring it all the way back, but some of it surfaced. I was on my way to work, driving north on 210, and I passed a broad field, just like every day. In the middle of the field was an old oak tree, solitary and boring, just like every day. As I drove by, I glanced at it, and was overcome with a powerful sense of sadness. I felt like I had lost someone very close to me, very dear. It was enough to bring tears. A memory from the night before slammed into me and for a brief moment I saw myself hanging from that tree, tied to a low branch. I saw it from below, in that altogether confounding way dreams have of letting you be in two places at once, and letting you experience the loss of losing yourself.
The feeling passed almost as quickly as I passed the tree, but the memory of the feeling stayed with me for the rest of the day, pressing down on my shoulders and drawing my gaze sometimes to the floor, but more often to the nearest window, where I'd see not the vista but my own ghostly reflection.
I can't remember any more of that dream, and I can't let go of the power that it had over me. I'm not good at letting go.
So why let it go at all? I'm going to start a journal, right here. I'll do my best to write down everything I can remember from my dreams. Sounds pretty boring, doesn't it? I absolutely hate it when people tell me their dreams. Why should mine be any different?
I promise you that the life my brain thinks it's living while I'm asleep is less boring than the one it knows it's living while I'm awake. I won't even pretend that you've even one tiny whit of interest in the day to day drudgery of selling paint or waiting tables to make ends meet...unless that's what I dream.
I'll start tomorrow.