I don’t normally write down my dreams as, frankly, I simply have too many of them every night to try and write them down. Whether it is a blessing or a curse I cannot tell, but I dream in such mesmerizing high-resolution it takes about twenty minutes after I wake for me to realize I am awake.
For my entire life I have suffered from an extreme sleep — something. The exact technical term for whatever it is I suffer from has never been revealed to me by either analysis or experimentation.
It short, it is difficult for me to sleep. This is largely due to a metabolism that doesn’t want to shut down. Aside from remaining in good shape and maintaining my reflexes and dexterity, my lifelong dedication to working out and the martial arts serve a more satisfying, ulterior motive — they wear me out. Only by overpowering my metabolism — by exhausting it — can I regularly sleep at night.
Yet, this is far from a total solution. Routinely, I wake after only an hour or two and remain incapable of falling back into the black void of sleep.
When I do sleep one of three things always happens: 1) sleepwalking; 2) nightmares; or 3) indistinguishable dreaming.
Because my metabolism does not shut down like a regular person’s, I routinely sleepwalk all around my house and frequently outside. More accurately, I sleep + walk, talk, fight, draw, make-out, write, wander, drive, jump, whatever. I have jumped out of second story windows, thrown objects through windows, written compositions, attempted to drive, drawn detailed artwork and carried on extensive conversations with anyone who will listen. It’s a major drag waking up a quarter mile down the street at 4 a.m.
Option B is nightmares so intense and grotesque, I have frequently broken from my night terrors with a start, drenched in sweat, fearful I may die from a heart attack as my heart is thundering in my chest. This particular species of dream is so horrific, it can be morally debilitating. On no few occasions I have awakened feeble and forlorn, unable to reconcile the images in my head for days, lingering in a malaise until I can properly collate the vision and seal it somewhere remote in my subconscious. It’s as if Hell itself seeps through the seams of my otherwise airtight dreamscape to show me things unlawful and entirely depraved.
Option C is no more fun. Because of my level of imagination, my dreams are indistinguishable from real life. Consequently, it often takes me hours after I wake to divorce myself from the dreams I’ve had the night before. Most perversely, I have dreams of normal, uneventful days which do not fade upon the waking. In these rare cases, I suffer from false memories as they as fastened in their detail as any real day.
All of this burdens me with the unenviable task of having to work for myself, as I am unemployable if for no other reason than the reasonable expectation of punctuality.
So, I am experimenting with jotting some of these dreams down as a catharsis. No matter how fast I type I have no desire to explore the full scale of these night-visions, but am simply curious to see if by the writing, they are more easily deferred.
Last night I had a peculiar dream in which I was accidentally divided into a disembodied essence that existed on three separate planes of existence simultaneously. It was like some poor shadow of The Trinity. I was separated yet impossibly singular. I knew this phenomenon was called The Tricameral Dominion in the dream, and it was a “permanent” state despite the fact that through my transfiguration, the boundary of time as I had formerly understood it was exceeded and not to be considered ever again save as a memory of some pitiful incarnation. For a brief glimpse I understood all things as a singular thought, rather than a long, linear parade of descended motives and motions. I was infinite and unsearchable, but strangely simultaneous. In a sense — if it is fair to use that term given its casual sensual couching — I was my own reflection, twice over, a baffling union of trilateral independence, possessed of a perfectly harmonious will, desire and order. A trillion perfections all moving the same direction and at the same speed.
Matter seemed laughable, almost a punch line, and space itself appeared as but a playground that I could spin and warp at whim. I perceived galaxies and electrons equally, and against what I had become, they were closer to each other in scale than they were to me. It was as if the entire Universe were but a passing thought, subject to any definition I chose to impose upon it.
And most importantly, I could slow down — infinitesimally, almost devoid of any motion — to perceive those who were not as I was. I could see material life in the hazards of its narrowness, its obscene commonness, the stench of its rot, the decay of its dull reason, the un-saving blindness it absurdly hoped might pass for knowledge; yet I was neither bored nor indignant at the uncountable orders of inferiority of this delicate, material realm.
In their bacterial scale and great fragility — my former prison — I found them rare and endangered. And I cared for them deeply, despite their microbial worth. It was as if they were the most cherished of germs.
Then I woke up.