Dreaming of Things

It lingers in my periphery.

A voice, a word, a wave, a face, an animal… They come to me with no announcement, no proclamation of what they are. Fleeting, slivers of time where they exist and not exist.

I call them the little nudges.

They tell me when to leave jobs, people, situations that aren’t favorable. They push me to new opportunities and better relationships. One too many of a nudge prevented me from being in a critical accident.

It’s a strange way of living but it is my way of living.

I prefer the nudges over my dreams, though.

I can ignore the nudges if warranted. My dreams, however, refuse to be suppressed.

I see things.

A void neither light nor dark with tendrils of something stretch, twist, pulse in all directions. Waves of sweltering heat and blistering cold pierce through my marrow.

Though I couldn’t tell through sight, I know that I stood in the epicenter of the undulating things.

The grotesque imagery will never send my dream self into a panic. Not even a tinge of resignation.

If I really wanted to think hard about it, I would feel…glee.

But I choose to not think too much about my dreams. Interpretations would lead to more questions than answers.

It’s not healthy, I know. My long list of therapists will agree with you.

Yet, when I’m still and allow myself a moment to just be, I can feel them.

Under my skin.

Rippling.

Ripping.

Writhing.

It is euphoria.

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