I had a dream last night.
I’ve always fancied dreams. I did a thesis on Freud’s Theory of Dreams back in college days despite Psychology wasn’t my major (it still isn’t) and I knew next to nothing about it except what Freud said in his 200-something-page book, which I wasn’t sure I got a firm hold of its content. Telling you this isn’t meant to show off what I know; it’s just sometimes my fancy for dreams almost becomes an obsession. I’ve had a lot of dreams, and my dreams more often than not send me extremely bizarre subconscious messages that leave me pondering what the hell they are supposed to mean for the rest of the day. Remember the time when I wrote about having a vampire-killing werewolf dream? Or the time I wrote about being a zombie-killing girl whose boyfriend was a human-cat named Hisoka (yeah, I remember the name)? Or the weirdest and funnies dream of all, the one about Ali, the teenage girl who was also a Valkyrie’s reincarnation?
My dreams are not always crazily strange; sometimes they are plain gory and I’m pretty sure others would call them nightmares. To me they aren’t nightmares; they’re just a little more morbid than a normal dream. One time I dreamed an entire horror (slasher) movie, with me being the protagonist, or the ‘survival girl’. There was some party going at my house and I invited a beggar in, gave her shelter and food. My kindness, like most torture movies, weren’t appreciated: the beggar turned out to be a serial supernatural killer and she murdered the guests, one by one. And unlike most torture movies, I wasn’t a helpless victim, I could fight back because, un-strangely enough, I myself was a supernatural being who could fight her blow for blow. I killed her, chopped her head off, threw it on a garbage heap and went back to other survivors. Something didn’t feel right, and when I came to check, her head was gone. The end. Faded to black.
Then, there was this dream in which I and other victims were shackled and led into a slaughterhouse, where the butchers put human heads and limbs on display like pork. Or the dream with girl wearing a white robe as she walked barefooted on the roof and finally fell down, breaking every bone of her body yet still alive.
In some morbid dreams, I was the hero to save the day, while in others, the sadist villain people hated and feared. My memory of this one dream is quite blurry to me, and the only impression I still have is that I was repeatedly torturing a man because he refused to surrender some secret I wanted. He wasn’t any good man himself; still I ranked much higher on the horrible monster scale.
Those dreams aren’t nightmares; the dream last night is.
I didn’t remember much of the previous part, something happened that led me to an amusement park. I ran through many parts aimlessly and having a lot of fun while at it. I even hopped on an electric toy car and rode with the kids. I met some friends there whose faces were unrecognizable to me – maybe I forgot them, or maybe I’ve never met them in real life. Don’t know. However, there was one face I knew. It belonged to a friend in college, whom I wasn’t exactly closed but on general good terms with. I liked her enough despite we mostly had nothing in common except class and major. We chit-chatted for a while and parted – she went into the water park while I took another aimless walk. It wasn’t long before I saw people rushing to the water park’s direction, gasping as they halted at the entrance, a horror look plastered on their faces. Curious, I came inside, and witnessed my friend with her wide eyes staring straight at me. Her body poked out of a small hole, and the blue water was being dyed red. The staff said the land on which this park was built was cursed and people died every now and then (why the hell didn’t they close it already?). There was a meat grinder (for lack of better word to describe that small, deadly hole) under the pool, which had sucked my friend in and the rest was a true gore fest. I remember the pain and horror upon seeing her body, or what remained of it. I wept for her, and the grief I had for her untimely gruesome death continued to haunt me for the rest of the dream, which is just a mundane sequence of everyday activities, and even after I woke up. Strangely enough, I had forgotten to set the alarm on and thus, my mother had to come upstairs and woke me. I had never felt so grateful for being released from the strong grip of my dream.
You see, my nightmares aren’t the ones that I play the hero or villain (sometimes both); my nightmares are those dreams which involve the death of someone I know. Death haunts me as much as dreams do, only not in the delightful way. Death generally scares me and if I think about it, or more precisely, think about whom it could take from me, my heart begins racing and I can have a panic attack. Earlier I wasn’t afraid of death that could befall me; I was appalled by the deaths that could befall people around me. Now I am horrified by the death of my own as much as those of others. It terrifies the hell out of me when I think how those closed to me would be devastated by my death, because I can always imagine how devastated I would be if it happened.
So naturally, being so scared of death, I was panic when I drew the Death card. My Tarot decks reflect much of my unconscious mind, since they have little to no connection to other minds except mine. This is one aspect of Tarot that I find fascinating. Besides telling me about the future, Tarot tells me much more about myself, my desires, my fears, my light, my darkness. It turned out the deck was just foreseeing my nightmare, as there was nothing else related to the Death card that happened during the day.
There are times that I think, nearly believe, that dreams are fragments of our other lives, lives that we never get to truly live out, always interrupted, cut short because we have to wake up and start another day of this life we are living. This is where I got the inspiration for the short story Remnants, where all the ‘ghosts’ (C.C., Slashy, Toasty and Drippy) are fragments from the dreams of the protagonist ‘I’.