The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

At one point I considered adding a Dream Journal to this thing. Relaying my dreams. Because, like oh so many people, I feel my dreams are special and important.

And better than yours.

Obviously.

Arrogant asides aside, I didn’t remember to note it in the Statement of Intent1 and, frankly, I don’t wanna go back in there and add it. So, assuming anyone is out there reading this, you’re getting by lucky. And you’ll never know just how lucky…

However, I am going to talk a little bit about dreams here. General, unsubstantiated stuff as well as a wee bit personal. Y’know, something to guarantee a post today.

From the start of history, dreams have been regarded as something special. Messages from the Gods, that sort of thing. As we advance into what we laughingly call civilization, our understanding of dreams changed until we believed (and, more likely than not still believe) that they were the voice of the subconscious, wanting our attention on something.

For the most part, this is true. However, not all dreams have meaning. Or, at least, I hope not.

Since I was about fourteen, I’ve had… Well, it’s not a recurring nightmare. Rather, a recurring source of nightmares. There is this creature, a bogeyman, who returns every now and then to torment me. Sometimes what he does is relatively benign, sometimes it isn’t.

You know the old saw: “If you die in your dreams, you die in real life?” It’s not true. Take it from one who knows.

I don’t know what I did initially to draw his attention to me. (No, no. I don’t mean that at all. He’s a figment of my imagination. I know this.) But I do know why he lingers.

I had a writing assignment in eighth grade English. Short story. And, lacking any better ideas, I wrote about a dream I had once. Not exactly the same, mind you, because the specifics of the dream were as dull as the dream was powerful. Something was coming to get me and I had to wake up. I threw myself from my bed, hoping the fall would wake me. Only the thing that was after me was waiting under the bed…

Nothing to it.

I gave the bogeyman a name (Harv), gave the teacher my story (complete and on time for once), and forgot about it.

That short story was one of the few A’s I got that year. My teacher even read it aloud and I got complements on it. (Not to my class, thank God, but I’ve often wondered why not, or if I missed it some how…) Ever since I’ve wanted to be a writer.

And I owe it all to Harv.

I think that offended him. For ever since, he’s visited me, seeking to do harm.

There I go again, giving him a reality he simply does not have. He’s an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a little bit of dickens inside my head. A little switch inside my mind flips to “Harv” every now and then and nothing more. I know this as well as you do.

And yet, in dreams I believe it all. In dreams he is real. He is real and he is malign as anything can be.

Like I said, dreams are powerful things.


1 FUTURE CULLEN SEZ: The blog used to have this post called Statement of Intent, in which I gave some sort of guideline to what I would cover on this site.  It has since gone the way of the dodo.

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