It seems that dreams grow duller with age, or maybe that is more the case of a common mind over an uncommon one (because I would never presume to be special in any way at this point in my life – not middle-aged I). So many of my dreams are little things, average things, work related and slice of life, so different than the vividness of past dreams. When I was younger, my dreams always had a sense of adventure (skeletons, giant spiders), or a desire to escape. Faceless pursuer dreams. They never run, like straight out of an 80s slasher flick. They never have to run, do they? They always know they’ll catch up, and somehow, they always do. In one instance, I turned and shot one such until it was nothing but a rainbow goop, and as I watched it reformed, liquid terminator style.

It makes me hanker for a good nightmare – the kind that jolts you awake, leaves your heart pounding. Makes you question your safety, even in a place where you’re as safe as you can expect to be. (but are we ever really safe?)

I have only ever had one sleep paralysis nightmare.

I once had a bedroom that had windows down most of one wall, and a large counter-like ledge lining them. My bed was pushed into the corner beneath them. I am laying in bed, waking – it is bright light out, but strange dark in the room. Something comes down from the upper far corner of the room, a shadow, spindly, clawed. It creeps, moving on all fours, somehow unnaturally, down the wall and across the corner desk and onto the extended window ledge. It approaches slowly. I try to move, but can’t – terror exalts. It climbs from the window ledge onto the bed, until it is hovering over me. I want to scream, or cry for help, or run away, but I am completely paralyzed, unable to move. It leans down towards me, and suddenly the terror is accompanied hand-in-hand with pure outrage. Nothing pisses me off more than helplessness. I strain, lifting my head to put my face into its face, and express myself in the only way I am able. I hiss. Like a goddamn cat.

When I wake up it’s early – the light quality of the room is completely different – the dark grey of barely dawn. Nothing is there.

It would be nice to say that the dream is a reflection of my awesomely brave self, but I’ve also had dreams of me cowering in buildings while a giant monster (Godzilla, it was pretty much Godzilla) threatened to kill people I loved if I didn’t come out to face it. And I didn’t because I was a coward.  

We’re all a little like that, I think.

Anyhow, axiomatic is mind because of a short story I just finished reading that pokes at the desire to be successful at the thing (the writing, the painting, the music playing) but the success can’t be granted, the core of it has to actually be there. Depressing? Uplifting? A bit of both?