Death and water and spies and secret bloggers

I feel ill at ease. I can still smell the salty water on my skin, which I know is only a trick of my brain, a leftover crumb that spilled into this world from the sieve of my mind… but I don’t like it. I sit here typing, and my heart beats hard in my chest. The first dream was a bad dream.

I was walking barefoot on a dock, wooden planks cold already, though there was still sunlight in the sky. It disturbs me I can remember every detail of that sky. I could paint it if I wanted to. The planks looked weathered and cracked, and the fabric of my white dress whipped in the wind. It was a suicide dress, and I was going to throw myself into the water. Shit. I wish I could shake off that remnant of despair inside of me. It’s fake despair, dream despair. But I still hate it.

I dropped quietly into the blue, and time passed. I don’t know how long, but I was deep in it, letting go, still not at peace, when I felt skin brush against mine. There. And again. It forced me to open my eyes. This skin was soft, vulnerable, and as I realized it didn’t belong to someone trying to save me, I knew that someone was in deep danger. I opened my eyes, and saw there was a baby in the water. There was light everywhere, and it was no longer a night ocean. It was a morning ocean, and a baby was drowning with me. It took me a few seconds to find it again, and when I did, I grabbed it, and held its head above water. Her head. It was a baby girl.

I made my way back to shore, and I didn’t feel cold. I felt a sense of regret that I didn’t do what I had wanted to do, and then I realized nothing looked familiar. It was a different place, and different people began to surround us. I sat on planks again, but these were new planks, buttery soft in the sun. I held that baby up, and tried to hand her over to whoever would grab her. She was not my baby, but no one took her. They said things I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know the language, but I knew they were saying something meaningful and reverent. I sat the baby on my lap, and she began to feel heavier. I looked down at her, and she grew.

All I could think of at that moment, staring at that beautiful baby girl was, “why can’t I be you?” Then I realized she was me. At some point, in the water, I had split into two, and the giantess in me had been born into reality. I love that, but my heart still pounds painfully. Ah, make it stop.

Then, the next dream last night: I send two men over to another man’s apartment, as I wanted them to collect some evidence that this man was fit to be shrunk. This dream felt creepy. I feel creepy and dirty, remembering my thoughts while I waited for them to call me from the broken-into apartment, to tell me what they found. They did call me, and told me they couldn’t find anything. I insisted they rummage around a little longer, when the man in question returned, and found them there.

Instead of making a ruckus, or calling the police, he asked them what they were doing there (I could “observe” this from some omniscient “above”), and they told him I wanted to know if he was a proper candidate for shrinking. He told them to tell me he was’t interested, that he had found someone new that he loved (?), and to please leave.

Finally, the third dream, and this one is frustrating because I want to remember the words, and I can’t. I was sitting here, blogging, when a link opened up in the admin section of my blog, and I saw there’s a secondary blog hidden within my blog. A tiny blog, and on it, someone had written me a poem. I remember reading the poem, and loving every word. Now all I see with my mind’s eye is blurry words, in blue font, tiny sized. That was the best dream, and thankfully, the last one. I’m… kinda glad I don’t remember the poem. It might have been truly terrible. But I don’t think it was.

7 thoughts on “Death and water and spies and secret bloggers

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  1. This is very deep. Good on you for recalling your dreams. I had two very vivid dreams this morning that I could’ve recorded if I’d acted on them promptly, but I thought they were trivial enough to let melt away like waxless chocolate.

    Your one dream is alien to me because I can’t know what it means to birth a living being from myself. I can build and create and rearrange existing elements to create something new, but I can’t take nutrients and chemicals into myself to create new life. Even if it’s to shed a viable miniature form of myself, designed exclusively to indulge in the over-sized sybaritic delights of womankind.

    Your dreams are telling. I won’t spell them out here, not for fear of being wrong but out of disinclination for making it easier for anyone else. You, however, make the dreams very real, very sensible. Dreams benefit from your interpretation and translation. You make the truth plain, especially the deeper truths. I don’t think that’s the simplicity of the dream: I know it’s the perspicacity of you. Not even your mind can wake up early enough to pull one over on you.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hey, I thought you had a system! I bet those trivial dreams were delightfully tiny, and worthy of being recorded. Now the world will never know, and we are the worse for it.

      The first dream: true, a man can’t create life, not directly; but I can’t split myself into two either. Now that some time has passed, I feel better about the suicide part, or rather… I have forgotten it, and focused my attention on the birthing-of-a-giantess part. That was the best part, even when I was jealous of myself.

      My dreams are always telling. They can pull the wool over my eyes sometimes… or- no, that’s not true. I used to think they could be a warning, or some sort of prescient advice. I think I’m better now at seeing them for what they are. Dreams. Not promises of a better future, or warnings of what might occur if I’m not careful. Just surreal tendrils of my reality.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I do have a system. But just because one has the nice china and flatware doesn’t mean one pulls them out for every meal. On the third hand, you’re right: I should have recorded them as soon as I woke up. Every individual crumb isn’t worth preservation, but crumbs in aggregate reveal the big cookie.

        I have faith in you. If you see something simple and read too much into it, I’ll invest in your stock. If you see something complex and oversimplify it, I’ll back you on principle. And if you want to blow it all off, I’ll laugh with you dismissively over the next round of drinks.

        At the same time… trust your intuition. I haven’t seen you be wrong yet. Suicide isn’t suicide in dreams, and being jealous of yourself is a wonderful position.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Of course I’m right. And that’s why: when I kept my dream journal I realized there were crumb dreams. But you know what, in the end, the cookie is just a pile of dreams, and it has nothing to do with reality. I’m just saying: use that fine china. You might as well. We’ll all be dead soon.

          Thank you. You words are priceless to me.

          No, suicide isn’t suicide in dreams. Nothing is anything in dreams. I’ve always been infuriated with dream analysis because it pretends to reveal something, and it does nothing. It applies a wide brush to pictures in my head, and all it does is sweep over it with inadequate paint.

          Still, my dreams are fun for the most part, which is why I enjoy blogging about them.

          Liked by 1 person

          1. I wouldn’t buy a textbook on dream interpretation, and I would be extremely leery of whom I consulted for advice. But in writing my dreams out and filling two journals of nocturnal hallucinations extrapolated into story form… I think I’ve learned a few things. Most of my dreams center on three consistent themes, for one thing. That was interesting and depressing to learn.

            How different is this from real life, though? You could keep a diary all through high school, then read it again out of your 30s and discover so many hidden truths in between the lines. No different than Tarot cards or feng shui, not at all.

            Liked by 1 person

            1. Keeping your own counsel when rereading your dreams is a far more rewarding -or meaningful, I should say- experience than allowing anyone, with out without authority, to dictate their symbolism. I only wish that what we discerned moved beyond interesting, which I find, and depressing, which is also true for me.

              I kept a diary for years. Many diaries, many years. All I learned is that brothers and cousins will steal them, read them, give them to the help to read, and have a make-fun-of-me party. The only shining truth, which I already knew, is that I’ve always loved to write.

              Liked by 1 person

              1. I think there are useful things to learn, certainly. I think I’ve learned useful things. And if nothing else, writing them out like this is great fodder for creative writing, so at least the project can be scrapped and salvaged for parts. So many classic, famous writers insist it’s important to keep a dream journal. I’ll trust that.

                Liked by 1 person

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