03 November 2011

Cold sweat seems so trite rolling from my tongue, or leastwise, coming out of the ends of my fingers onto the keys. But cold sweat is an apt description of how I woke up this morning; later than usual, but not as late as I would have liked for my day off. My brain was in a dream-induced confusion; my down comforter too heavy; and my bed unfamiliarly empty of anyone but me.

It took me a good solid minute of controlled breathing and staring at my dimly lit ceiling to piece things together.

I won't tell you about the dream, or what I remember of it, but only of the feeling it created in my gut, in my head, in my whole being. A feeling of profound wrongness. All was lost to me. My world had been shaken around like a trinket snow globe, but the pieces refused to fall back to logical order. My bastion of support in life is ever-present in my dreams when I remember them, but he was strangely absent from all but the beginning of this one. Replaced only by dread. Dread of decisions about the future, fears about my past, my mother, death, hiding, test anxiety. Apparently the only person I could think of in my dream to help me was far too engrossed in texting and came dressed in a slightly too large Storm Trooper uniform.

I seldom like remembering my dreams. I rarely remember the good ones...

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