I don’t keep my blog to a schedule. I’ve tried. I’ve failed. So, this is not Pride and Prejudice Day because I didn’t finish reading it. Yes, I’ve read it at least a dozen times and could probably write up something remotely interesting from memory, but I feel like that’s cheating. Instead, I’ll tell you a little story.
I woke up from a nap and brushed the sticky summer hair from my face. Swinging my legs off the bed, my five-year-old feet barely made a noise on the wood floor. Something moved in my peripheral vision, something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Ever so slowly, I turned my head, and that’s when I saw it. A six-foot tall ant stood at my closet, hanging up my clothes. It smiled. Somehow.
I screeched. I ran. Into another six-foot tall ant wearing an apron in the kitchen as it made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Horrified, I backed into the refrigerator, feeling the steady rhythm of its hum against my palms.
“Oh, you’re awake.” My mom smiled, obviously blind to the giant ants that had invaded our house.
I raised my wobbling finger to the ant that was still studiously applying the strawberry jelly to the bread. “Wh-wh. . .”
“Didn’t you know they were staying for lunch?” My mom chuckled.
And then I woke up for real.
I had this dream when I was five. I still remember it. It was extremely vivid, extremely terrifying, and extremely strange. Then again, all my dreams are. My parents have said a countless number of times that I’ve always had vivid dreams, or rather nightmares. I’ve been shot a few times, drowned in tidal waves half a dozen times, and then there are the ones where my country turns into a military state, bombs dropping on us incessantly. Or tigers that emerge from the sea and can fly when they spread their wings. Or how about dust that turns into wolves?
Those are just a few and very watered down at that. I used to scream for my parents, but then I grew up; although sometimes I wish I could still call for my parents, especially after the ones that end with one of them dying. Whoever I marry is going to have a difficult time with me, seeing as how I go several days in a row waking up frantically. One time, I had such a long streak of nightmares that my brother said I should see a psychiatrist to see why they were so bad. I didn’t. I survived. But I hate them.
And then I love them. I’ve grown used to being shot, stabbed, drowned, what have you that I wake up and immediately write it down in my “Dreams” folder on my phone. They sit and wait for me to turn them into short stories or novels. I’m actually in the process of writing one of them into a YA novel. (It’s the dream Morgan Freeman narrated, in case you were wondering.) So my dreams haunt (oh, hey, I forgot about all the ghost dreams!) me, and leave me a little breathless. And yet, I can’t craft a short story because the simplest dreams turn into a massive forest of ideas that branch off of each other, and then I’m caught in a dense wood. Oh wait, that was another dream.