I often can’t remember my dreams. There are bits that stick with me. Yet, often I am peering at these remnants through mist or smoke. It is hard to grasp any part firmly in my mind and keep there as I return to the waking world. There was a period when I attempted to write down dreams. There were pen and paper at the bedside. As I lay there waiting for sleep to overcome me, I commanded myself to remember whatever the dream world allowed me to see.
For maybe a year or two I made a concerted effort to write down every dream remembered. Whatever was remembered even if only a snippet or only took a sentence, was taken down. Soon I remembered more and more of the dreams. But the more I remembered and wrote down, the more surreal the dreams seemed in the morning hours. Eventually I didn’t write them down. And as consequence I hardly remember any in the morning these days.
I certainly don’t remember last night’s dream or any from last week. The last dream I remember was from a couple of weeks ago and it was really something. It concerned a three-some with Megan-a girl I work with and would love to marry-and an unidentified girl and myself. We had a serious French lesson in nonstandard love.
There are glimpses of touching and kissing and gazing. The stimulation of the senses was overwhelming. In the snippets recalled I often just laid there letting the sensation of pleasure fill the room. Then wishing it to engulf me, engulf us. The feeling was one of leaving an atmosphere filled with only oxygen and entering one with…more. It wasn’t like slipping into water, but I did feel buoyant. Not weightless, yet I felt lighter. There was caressing of face and arms and ankles and ears, but not from hands or an others skin. If I reached for it I couldn’t touch it, but if I did nothing, this essence, this what ever it was, would slip over me. It would seep into my skin, and joints, and muscles, and nostrils. This extra -as I can to think of it-would wrap me in feelings so wondrous and exciting that I wanted to stay within its sphere of existence for eternity. Or at least the foreseeable future, I would have settled for that.
Yet all to soon I found myself awake, in my room. Clothes piled high on the foot of the bed. Books strewn about the floor. My cat Kublai rested at the foot of piled clothes. The purr of contentment softly rolled out of his chest. Oxygen. Plain oxygen filled my lungs. All was normal. The waking world was as I left it.
I didn’t write the dream down. I lay there trying to remember that feeling, trying to find words to describe how I felt, and what it felt like. Before I could solidify my thoughts into words, I drifted back into the world of dreams, of which I remember nothing.
- Waking Dreams (tazinyourpantz.wordpress.com)
- Dreaming: the Art of Staying Sane While Surrounded by Crap. (insolenceandimpertinence.wordpress.com)
- Waking Up (allinablurr.wordpress.com)
- Rockin’ the Bayern…: Six Techniques for Remembering Dreams – DivineCaroline (divinecaroline.com)