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  • She said she woke up this morning feeling loss. The loss of a muse, she thinks? "It's a really sucky feeling, in case you've never felt it" she added. I stayed silent, bit my tongue.

    She is a younger friend, a painter, and had one of those insanely intense dreams where there was lots of crying and kissing and apologies and anger and above all else....a gut wrenching feeling of urgency and loss. The realization that no matter what is all happening in this crazy moment (it's a dream after all, not reality! Though so real feeling that she woke up feeling the ramifications of the dream as if they had really happened - depression, confusion, anguish - which to me, make the dream just as pertinent as as reality...) there was nothing she could do.

    Nothing she could do to change the series of events that transpired in the dream.

    "It was all beyond me. Done" she added, and plopped herself onto my couch.

    The wheels were set in motion, ripping her and the object of her affection apart, in opposite directions. "Not even 'taking' which sounds pleasantly passive, but tearing apart, really. Not passive at all. Active and aggressive! Like paper when it's torn? That sound..."

    In the dream, she said she knew suddenly that she and this person were, in a sense, one. Cut of the same cloth. Bonded by weft and weave and the strange machinations of fate. Maybe she didn't realize it before? Or more likely, she did, just wouldn't admit it.

    "And so here I am, lost in this stupid, dark, crazy fantasy, tearing apart from him, utterly miserable, with nothing I could do about it! And now what? WHAT?" she covered her face with her hands. For reasons she didn't understand (neither in the dream nor in reality) they were both dissolving in the dream, shredding, falling apart. Pulling away and talking over eachother and crying, crying with this person that she just realized in the 11th and too late hour she was so bonded to.

    She said she woke up in a cold sweat with the fan blades whirring overhead, sobbing in silence.

    "And then there was an added, very weird dimension to this dream in which creepy black spots, like huge birthmarks (or what women in the '50s affectionately called "beauty marks" why? I don't know.) Anyway, the misshapen black dots were multiplying like rabbits on my hands while I was crying, and apologizing, and and trying to scratch them off, afraid they would be noticed.... WTF is THAT?" She shrieked, waving her hands dramatically in the air.

    I said I didn't know. Which was not entirely true. Not really.

    No one in this dream was in control. No one.

    "There was a lot of loud, distorted background noise - like the engines of speed boats? Revving up. Pulling away. And the both of us screaming and crying and wishing for a different ending. It was loud and frightening and it truly disorienting for a full day..."

    She said she did all the usual things: woke up and took a shower. Dressed up for work. Wore her happy, professional face all day and talked the right talk, trying to shake it off. But she couldn't. She said she went home exhausted from the day long effort of trying to distract herself. Fell asleep at 8:30 pm the following night, trying to forget.

    "Which is of course, probably forget" she looked at me with nervous, sad eyes. I told her to go home and get some sleep. This was day 2, the aftermath. And she still looked forlorn.

    Of course it's not likely she'll ever forget, but I didn't tell her that either. We've all been there - that sound of shredding paper, the 11th hour confessions and waking up in a cold sweat. At least I have.

    The sticky dreams that are not sweet. The ones about the situations you can't control, relationship scenarios you can't fix. The loud whir of engines of life pulling you apart in different directions. Themes of aging and separation and unrequited love. The disturbing ones that we never forget.

    Photo credit: Porsche Brosseau, Flickr
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