Often times, they are the best part of my day, and waking up from them makes me wish I could live in my subconscious, rather than in reality.
On several occasions, I have used my dreams in stories. The idea for one of my favorite screenplays came to me when I basically dreamed the trailer for the movie.
I have very vivid dreams, and they are so realistic that I sometimes wake up and find myself doing whatever I was doing in my dream.
I’ve lost track of all the times I’ve awakened in the middle of a fight with the masked stranger that watches me sleep.
This week, however, my dreams have troubled me.
Two nights in particular really freaked me out so badly that I was off kilter for the remainder of the day.
It’s taken me this long to sit down and write about them because I haven’t really wanted to gather my thoughts and think about them again.
But writing is therapeutic, and I’m hoping that sharing the dreams with you will finally clear them from my mind.
The first one was about my Dad, who died almost thirty years ago.
Maybe it was because his birthday was a couple of weeks ago.
Perhaps it was because my sister sent me a new photo of Dad and I just last week.
In the dream, Dad came to visit me. My home was a cross between The House on the Hill and my childhood house in Brooklyn.
Dad and I were sitting on the porch watching the Yankees game. This was awesome because Dad gave me my passion for the Yanks. He died before our favorite team went on a tear of winning World Series, so this was my chance to finally enjoy them again with the man who took me to my first Yankees game.
When this game ended, I wanted to talk all about it, but Dad said, “I’m really tired, Austin. It took a lot for me to get here.”
In my dream, I began to wonder if Dad meant the trip from Brooklyn to Maine, or the journey from the afterlife to the land of the living.
I couldn’t figure out if my Dad was really there with me, or if he was just a ghost.
Once he’d gone to bed, I tore up the house looking for my favorite photo of us. I didn’t want him to think he’d come all this way to discover that his only son had lost his most cherished photograph of the man who’d given him life and his name.
I woke up in a cold sweat, and headed downstairs to check the mantel, where I keep my framed photos of Dad.
They were all right where I expected them to be.
We broke up two years ago, but she has been on my mind more than usual lately. A song will remind me of her, I’ll hear someone speaking with a Brogue, or a snippet of a past conversation will pop into my head unexpectedly.
In this midnight movie of my mind, I’d traveled across the Atlantic to Ireland to sublet Melissa’s apartment for two weeks.
She had not yet decided if she was going to stay in the apartment for those two weeks and try to rekindle, at the very least, a speaking relationship with me.
She had cut her hair very short, but was even more beautiful than I’d remembered.
She sat across from me at the kitchen table, and silently sipped her tea. She would look at me with those big, penetrating green eyes, but would not say a word.
She would look away, and I would try to speak to her. Try to start a conversation. But she would not let me hear the sweet voice I missed so much.
She’d stare at me, with her eyes filled with sadness and disappointment, but she refused to vocalize the pain.
It was pure torture. All I wanted was for her to talk to me, even if it was to tell me she loathed me. I was desperate to hear that accent that used to make my heart flutter.
She didn’t even offer me a cup of tea.
I woke up from that one with my heart beating wildly, and I could not go back to sleep. I was so tempted to grab my laptop and write to her and beg her to talk to me, but I fought the temptation.
Sometimes, I hate my dreams, and they haunt me for days on end…