Where am I?
Thirty years ago, I took the train home after a late business dinner. Rather than take a cab, I decided to walk home from the station. Concerned about riff raff, I opted to take the quiet street rather than a busy thoroughfare.
Shortly thereafter I was greeted by two gentlemen with sawed off shot guns. Before I knew it, they demanded my cash. The next thing I knew, one of them hit me in the temple with the butt of his gun. When I came to later on, my wallet and about two years of memories were gone. Talk about wrong place, wrong time!
Beyond losing over seven hundred days of my life, I did not dream for over twenty years post trauma. Well, at least not that I can remember. My nights were a total blank and while I faintly recalled what it was like to dream, I really didn't miss them very much. The primary benefit was that while I might be living a nightmare,
I certainly wasn't having any.
Slowly my dreams started to return. I can't describe how odd that was. As time has passed, I do not dream of days spent in paradise. Instead, my nights are spent in a state of mind where there is little rest for the wicked.
My twilight sojourns are no longer blank canvases. Now each evening is spent wandering through visions that oddly relate to the events of my day.
Be careful what you wish for
For many years I mourned the loss of my
ability to dream. Now I fondly look back
at those years of dreamless nights. My
return to evening revelry means that
instead of blank bliss, I fight mind games
each night. My head is now filled with
visions, visages, and vestiges of things
I can't quite comprehend. My hope is that
slowly I'll adjust to these night visions.
For now I'm still unnerved as I awaken.
To be honest I seem to rarely have nightmares. Instead my dreams consist of complex rehashes of odd events distantly related to actual circumstances. For example - I'm often traveling somewhere out of my control.
There are experts who claim they can read dreams. That's nothing new as Biblical passages recount dreams foretelling future facts. However most of today's experts attribute dream filled nights to a lack of sleep. Given my snoring, and Frank's diagnosis of sleep apnea, I'm fairly certain there must be some sort of connection.
After years of putting off going to a sleep
clinic it's obvious that I seriously need to.
Periodic dozes at my desk, dream filled
nights, and ceaseless snoring are further
indication that I have a real problem. My
cacophony of caterwauling also causes
Frank to spend most nights on the sofa.
While I'm certain my baritone bellowing
can be quite spectacular, it's not doing
either of us any good. Time to wake up!