What do I dream of?
Dreams are an odd thing, a strange thing. Your sleeping brain creating images that tell, well, something—regardless of whether or not it’s coherent, regardless of whether it makes any sense.
Sometimes, it’s glimpses of what I want, and in these dreams I can feel. I can feel the warmth of whomever I presently yearn will grow to love me, holding me tightly in their arms. Those whom I’ve lost come back into my life, as though they’ve never left—their bodies no longer cold and ash. The air turns humid, and the feeling of the sun on my face puts me at ease.
It all only makes it harder when I wake up again.
At other times, it’s nonsensical. Outer Space, towering cities of impossible heights, airports and architecture that make no sense—with stories attached to them that I am incapable of describing.
But I enjoy these dreams, and I’ve always wanted to someday get around to drawing some of what I see.
Then there are the nightmares, of course. They also tend to not make sense, and I’ve never had a nightmare based in realism. Instead, I see disturbing imagery—the ground morphing into a beast, as constant screams echo that reach everywhere but do not come from me—ever-present and ever-disturbing.
Nothing chases me, or hunts me. But instead, the images and sounds on its own are enough to wake me into a fit of anxiety.
But there are also the symbolic dreams. Abstract, but they make perfect sense—dreams that put my current situation and feelings into perspective. My own mind giving itself clarity and guidance, in an odd way.
The symbolic dreams are my favorite of them. They help create a path, instead of confusion. Instead of showing me what I want, but can’t have. Instead of making me wake up filled with anxiety.
So I’ve told you, now it’s your turn. Tell me, what do you dream of?