Lately, I've been wondering why I forget my dreams even before waking up. And wondering what my dreams would tell me if I remembered them.
Last night, I obliged myself. There must have been a few grains of will involved; I didn't think I could pull off remembering a dream just because I wanted to. Do dreams operate by a different sense of what's attractive than surface life? It wasn't until I woke up in the morning that I thought, That was one ugly pup. The mother dog was...kind of a dog as well. But in the dream I didn't give it a second thought, nor did I think, gee, puppies don't usually nurse by sucking on a bitch's tail.
It was dream normal.
The scariest dream I ever had was when I was very young. There was nothing actually frightening in it, a bit like the suppressed polish of our Quaker household. After all, there was nothing frightening about my parents. I dreamed of something pretty, and I woke up terrified.
There was pastoral color in the dream: It was silent: An earthen path through a flower garden, the path covered with boards to walk on, like you sometimes see at the beach. At the end of the path, a summer gazebo waited. I woke up and hid behind the laundry bag in the bathroom between my brother's room and my room. Bothering my parents wasn't an option.
--That silence rose from fear of a silent dream. Silence can be anything: a place for worship to expand; white space, in which the words of a poem resonate after they've been read; even a passive weapon--silence that fuels injustice by accepting the status quo.