thursday (chapter 4)

if he looks backward at this morning’s awakening, he will realize that it was of his own choosing; the dream he was having deserved to be stopped, an anxiety dream, & one that has plagued (plagued may be too harsh a word, although for years it has been the go-to dream when his anxiousness overtakes his waking world); he stopped it then by waking up, opening his eyes & then closing them again, & a breath later, a deep breath later, the alarm sounded & as he turned toward the nightstand he sighed deeply, thankful that his waking (that conscious decision while in a subconscious state, a miracle of one mind over several other minds) had stopped the inevitable end of the dream, an end that he had dreamt too many times that the word countless would be an inadequate qualifier.

[as the author, i could stop now & tell you what the dream is composed of, although each time the circumstances are different, the framework, the spine of the story remains the same & that is the issue with its ability to manifest anxiety.  i remain uncommitted.]

it is language & actions as a result of language, & the failure, the constant, spiraling failure that are the hallmarks of this dream.  you would wake yourself too.

it starts out innocently enough, although if he were to more closely examine each of these beginnings, he would realize (& perhaps now he has, but will it register subconsciously?) that each of these dreams begins in brilliant technicolor, exuding happiness & the kind of “all is right with the world” good feeling that makes for such pleasant sleeping, but it can quickly turn dark, even while still light-hearted in color & tone & sweetness & light.  & that is how last night’s (but actually this morning’s) dream began & it was only his recognition of the warning signs (the unusual requests “i’ll have a diet pepsi on ice with a pot of hot water,” “bring me a cup of mild coffee,” to which he replied, “i’ll make sure to ask the coffee to behave itself as i pour it into your cup,” which, if you’ve been paying attention, would be the tipping point of the dream, & although there were smiles all around, the scene had taken on a carnival, evil clown, a freak-of-nature-on-display-roped-off-from-the-crowd (for their own protection) kind-of-atmosphere, there even may have been cage bars silhouetted on the far wall of which he was, in retrospect, only aware of their symbolism after the fact.

but even though he had quelled the dream before it could go any further, stopping it before its inevitable conclusion, it did not matter, his day was shaded by its garish hues & sulphuric vapors & clammy cold hand on his heart.


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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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