I’ve always had a strange dream life. Nightmares mostly. Some might even call them “night terrors.” But even with the rare good dreams, came wild imaginings drawn across a mental plane that is only loosely attached to reality. Adventures with movie-like plots, where I began as a young and agile female character racing through darkened city streets on a mission of unmeasurable importance, to a wizened male character looking through a bright window at the peaceful countryside.
Once, during a dream where I was playing myself, I stood in the downstairs portion of my two-level apartment — the squared-off twisting staircase behind me, my large square mirror to my side — and looked around the room. “I’m dreaming,” I said, self-aware. So I woke up, walked downstairs, peeked in the mirror and realized with shock, “I’m dreaming.” So I woke up, walked downstairs, scanned the room and glanced at my reflection and thought, I’m still dreaming. Panic filled my sleep and I ran back upstairs to my bed to wake up.
So, I woke up and raced downstairs to see if I was awake. I leaned forward at the bottom of the staircase, my hand resting possessively on the little wooden crown at the end of the railing, and searched the room. My heart began to slow. I looked in the mirror. I breathed deeply. I must be awake now, I thought with comfort. I let go of the railing and turned to go back upstairs. A small gold and glass lamp twinkled halfway across the room to my left. I paused. Something wasn’t right. I don’t remember that lamp. And I certainly don’t remember it resting on the ceiling, with its white cord trailing along the popcorn crumbs as though gravity were reversed somewhere above my head — a mirror image. “I’m still dreaming!” I said, my mouth filling with a yell.
I sat up in bed, panting. My dog — a mini, grey and white thing that I allowed to sleep under the covers with me — snorted and moved away. I pinched my arm (seriously). I swallowed. I listened. And that’s when I knew I was finally awake.
The sound of reality is a layered and complex orchestra of noisemakers at varying distances, which dance with the tingling pressurized ring in my ears and the thoughts that are so subconscious I’m always nervous I’ve said them out-loud. My dreams, though sometimes filled with screams and explosions, are virtually soundless — save for one single tone, voice, focus. There is no complexity amidst the confusion and emotion. There are no layers that paint an invisible, textured canvas over the scene played out in front of me.
As I sat up, breathlessly deciding on reality, my dog settled in and began to snore immediately. A lone car pressed its tires against the paved country road just outside. The elderly wood and brick house resettled in the night around me. The wind tickled the loose glass in the window frames. And my heart — which was still steadily thumping — banged against the bones in my head and chest.
I’m awake, I thought, laying back down to sleep.