*Warning: this delves deep into my dreams and the details within are very much not for casual reading. It's not super-explicit but it's pretty honest. Just as heads up.*
I woke up this morning in a pissed off mood. Not a good mood at all. I slept poorly. I woke up and felt like crap and that was simply because I had been eating crap food the past couple of days. Good tasting, yes, but nutritionally they were a waste. I was six pounds heavier than where I preferred to be and my day started off poorly.
But really, it was poor even before I woke up, while I was sleeping. Because, man, did my dreams do a number on me.
I'm a writer. I'm not going to sit here and tell you how good I am, because frankly I don't think I'm really quite that good. But let me tell you, writing is the way I get things out there. The way I express myself. The way I'm able to breathe after a long day or a long couple of days.
And I needed to breathe today but I couldn't write for the life of me. My mind was fogged up, clogged up, and I was failing at putting together a coherent sentence. Frustrating? Yeah.
I took to doing some manual labor, then ate some lunch (ham and cheese) and then took a long walk. An hour and a half into town. I needed it. It felt good and, honestly, if I didn't have other things to do tomorrow I'd take another walk right now. I still need it. I don't want to sleep.
Not looking forward to dreamland. Not after last night.
As a writer, I'm pretty tied into my creative energies. My imagination and things that occur there are just as real to me as anything that occurs out here in reality. It sounds crazy scary (it does, I grant that) but it's how my mind works. I can find parallels to what's going on in realty vs. what's going on in my imagination.
My dreams last night were not kind dreams. I won't call them nightmares because in nightmares there isn't a single thing you like. I can't say that here. I hated most of it but there were aspects of these dreams that I liked.
I hate these types of dreams. Not only for the mess they leave me in (literally and emotionally) after I wake up, but because of the fact I remember them. Always I remember them and I hate remembering them because, honestly, it's wrong in my view.
Yes, I get that these types of dreams (otherwise known as 'nocturnal emissions' or 'wet dreams' ... yeah, I said it) are natural. I've had just about everyone tell me this, including many trusted friends and even a priest. According to the priest, it's not a sin ... but it can't be right.
People claim you can't control dreams. I can't buy that. Not when I'm a writer. I grant that I don't exactly control my imagination when I'm awake but I certainly am an active participant in it ... I can point it in a direction and sometimes it'll go there.
Dreams are just an unconscious expression of my imagination, right? I just have to stay on the right track before I go to sleep and not get my head lost in things that aren't going to happen.
But they do happen. In my dreams.
Which means that it does happen. My stories are real to me. My characters are real to me. My imagination is real to me. The things that happen in those realms are real to me and, damn it, it does happen.
And it shouldn't. It's wrong. I can't shake the feeling that it's wrong and I don't think I ever will. There's no excuse for such a violation and that's what it is. It's not like the dreams are pure imagery, they're feelings and dialogue, and touch, and smell ... they're a story playing out while I sleep.
It's one thing when the story is filled with characters based on real people. It's another when they are real people. Real people who I'm friends with, real people who I trust, real people who I see/talk to on a daily basis.
It's wrong. There's no way around it, it's wrong, and I have yet to come up with a viable strategy to end it. These types of dreams weren't nearly this bad as when I was a teenager. But then, as a teenager, I was a lot heavier. I don't know how much that plays into it.
Whatever the case, I was pretty guilt ridden and in a severely melancholy mood for most of today. I walked into town to get some ice cream. I also got a spoon, a big spoon as they didn't have a smaller one, and I walked back. I popped the ice cream into the freezer for about thirty minutes, watched Trek 09, and then popped it out.
I then went to work on it. Ice cream makes me feel better though, let's be honest, it's going to piss me off when I next step on the scale. Which is going to be Wednesday because I can't be in a bad mood tomorrow, I have things to do.
But I really don't want to sleep. I'm tired, yes, and I want to rest, yes, but I don't want to dream. Last night was enough. More than enough.
It's wrong. I went about this all day and I can come to no other conclusion. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Sure, it might be 'natural' but it's wrong. It's a violation of trust, of friendship, of loyalty, and of honor. I get there are no dream police and one can't be held responsible for it ... but I can't buy that for myself. I can't. I refuse. I can direct my creative energies while I'm awake, why can't I do it while asleep?
I see no reason why. Other than the fact that, as much as I hate the dreams, there are parts I like.
And no, it's not those parts. Not the messy ones. It's the parts before and after. The foreplay before and the closeness after.
What can I say, I'm a romantic.
Anyway, this is probably more than you cared to know about me. But I warned you at the top. You only have yourself to blame.
Thanks for reading, folks. Catch you next time.