by April May Maple

Created on: February 17, 2009

Dead bodies, another dream of them, no rhyme or reason just odd angular bends and an all too peaceful, coroner placed smile. My days were happiness and sunshine but the night brought a completely different set of emotions; chills and shivers, cold sweats and silent screams. These dreams were the worst, like an ominous warning that one must interpret before time was up. I could deal with the gory ones, at least then it was obvious what happened, but all this death without a feasible explanation was truly horrifying. Isn't it the same way in real life? Oh the sad silly irony, possibly "in real death" would be a more accurate expression. When someone dies and there is an acceptable everyday cause, it is okay, sad but okay. When death is thrust upon us blindly, without any precursor or justification, it grants death its power and fear.

I poured my cup of coffee and jotted the flickering memories of the dream into my journal. There was not much to record, all those flaccid bodies floating about everywhere. Instead, I reiterated the emotions that had accompanied it; confusion, panic, an unexplainable sense of being lost. The dream journal was my psychiatrist's idea. I never came to her about real life problems; it was the dreams that sent me for help. It is remarkable the power our own minds have. They manufacture our dreams with such powerful realism that even though we cannot remember the dream, the feelings that linger are carried with us for hours, perhaps even days later.

I had carried the dreams with me as a burden from as early as I could remember. So many nights I spent outside my parent's bedroom door, not wanting to disturb them but not wanting to be alone. Tonight there were no parents on the other side of the door. Tonight I would have to face the night alone. Tonight I would cower and result to insomnia, fighting until my body sent me back to my minds control. Though it left its mark on me, insomnia had become my friend, sheltering and protecting me as best it could. The dead dreams were my relentless, all powerful, undefeatable enemy. I could try as I might to prolong their onset but in the end, just like the grim reaper; they would have their way with me and overcome my body.

In the end there really is no ominous warning to decipher in order to save yourself. There is merely acceptance, then vacantness. The dreams are there waiting as sure as death.

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