My day is starting off pretty much the wrong way. Sure, I managed close to a thousand words last night, finishing off a scene where Kerry is having to beg two of his favorite older females to help him with a problem, but that was last night. Today is today, and it started about four AM. Which is not cool.
The thing that woke me up was a rather depressing dream. What happened isn’t very clear: it seemed like I was boxing up people and preparing to send them somewhere. Everything was gray and near permanent twilight, and I could tell that I wasn’t happy. No, not in the least.
Not long after I woke up I started, for no reason at all, thinking about the deaths of my characters. And then of a scene where one of them gets hurt bad, really torn up, and starts sobbing uncontrollably over the loss of someone close to them. And then . . .
Well, then I sort of lay in a half-awake, half-asleep state until the alarm went off, and the computer came up, and I started writing this. The way my mornings almost always start.
Something I realized while lying in bed: I don’t remember my dreams that much any more. And when I do, there’s little that’s memorable about them. Two years ago I used to write a lot about my dreams, because I had some interesting things going on in my head. I also had some horribly, hellacious stress going on in my life as well, but that’s another story.
But maybe that’s it: maybe all the stress I felt then caused me to fall back into my dreams to find peace. And I used to find it; there were all sorts of things I used to encounter there. I also encountered a soul-sucking blackness once that frightened the hell out of me once I was awake, but you gotta take the bad with the good, right?
These days, however, it seems like none of that happens. Even with all the stress and pain I feel with my current, long-ass, never-seeming-to-end novel, it never seems as if I find any solace in sleep. When I do remember anything, it’s all different shades of gray and feelings that nothing right is happening, or ever will happen. It’s pretty much as if there isn’t much happiness in the waking hours, and that translates over to the Land of Dreams, where goddamn Morpheus is busy playing Battleship with his sister Death, and hasn’t the time to do anything to help out a poor girl.
I used to dream of old Cassidy, the girl I invented before–well, before she became me. I had dreams of The Monster House before I wrote down notes about how it would make a great story, and that recurring dream never recurred. The one I miss the most is my Muse. I never dream of her any more, and she used to be there a lot. So many times.
Now, nothing. She’s gone. Somewhere out there, but not visiting me. And that leaves me sadder every day.
This might only be something temporary. Maybe there’s something in The Burg that sucks up all the good energy that leaves you great dream, and all that remains is as gray and semi-lifeless as this place can be at times.
All I know is, I want my dreams back.
It’s not enough to dream about them; it’s everything to live thought them once the lights go out and your eyes close.
Why deny someone a little happiness in their subconscious?