“
The Irony Of Dreams, And The Disappointment “
(
originally written, July 13, 2008 )
07/10/12
To
my very dearest friends, and constant, loyal readers,
Prologue:
I frequently awake to mornings unremarkable in
promise, or in gain, or of purpose, depending on the level of pain I almost
always awake to; and thus based on those criteria, can chart the progress of my
day that may range from hopeful to helpless.
But somehow, this morning seems different, if for no
other reason than that it was to agony that dragged me—most unwilling—from the
utter ‘unawareness’ that sleep can sometimes confer, up to the ‘surface’, and
full-into the kind of pain that paralyzes the will, and almost all bodily
movement; I hardly dare to move as this horrendous global pain would destroy
all meaningful thought or volition.
Forgive me, dearest friends, for I fully know that
you have mental, and/or physical illnesses whose by-product is but a dreary
mind cloud, and pain to an extent that makes you cry, and rock in place, and
take—really—anything you can to try to limit pain’s onslaught and duration.
You reluctantly give up the bed and any sleep as a
cause lost; again the pain has won a pyrrhic victory, for—by now—how little we
have to fight with. You may be up so
early, that everyone else in the house is still asleep; you are both reassured
by their comfortable snores, yet…you resent that blissful state as
unattainable.
You may sit somewhere so that the light will not
disturb anyone, and, having taken all the medication you can ( and, sometimes a
little more ), push the pets off the sofa so that you can hug a cushion, while
rolling yourself into a little ball of purest agony, subconsciously seeking to
take up as little space as you can.
And, slowly sip at a still-too-hot mug of coffee,
and as the occasional tear runs down your face, you sigh, that kind of sigh
that is a prayer, for you have gotten up too early, and, since this looks to be
a ‘pain day’, mentally rehearse your schedule, wishing you could just be left
alone, instead.
So I will not violate your kind befriending of me by
reciting a veritable ‘Chinese Restaurant’s menu, with convenient numbers
listing all my pain, distress, or despair; my MDJ Profile sums it up pretty well; the rest I
leave to your imagination.
Even though I love my dear dog Daisy so very, very
much…still…it took almost an hour, and several tries to just leave my kitchen
chair to attend to her few, and little needs.
I hate to—in effect—neglect her for even that time, as it was she who
adopted us twelve years ago, and since, she has been my buddy and my pal.
While rummaging-through a cabinet, looking for a
new, lined tablet to do some budgetary work on ( you too know the feeling, when
so much of the month is still to come ), when I came across a little, stapled
set of notes that I had written 07/13/08, and I was curious as to what
compelled that entry, particularly as, four years ago, I had not as yet been
diagnosed with Lupus, Fibromyalgia, R.A., and was, if memory serves, two months
away from having to have my appendix removed, so, in that regard, I might have
been in the pain associated with it. Oh,
and I forgot pneumonia, too.
And so, my very dearest friends, while I stop to
rest, recharge, regroup while still so very congested, with your most kind
approval, I want to share those now, four year old thoughts with you, for—in
matters of the heart—some things never change…do they?
“
The Irony Of Dreams, And The Disappointment “
I just awoke from a long, and pleasant dream I knew
to be false; yet I encouraged it to last as long as it could last until
physical necessity forced me awake and fully conscious.
First, my mother and father were still alive, happy,
and healthy in ways that had eliminated all chance of illness or despair.
That we were exceedingly well-off was apparent from
the rugs, to the fine furnishings, to the art hanging in rows against the wall,
which was a most pleasing blue.
My father had come down to my room to bring the
mail, and a rare liqueur he wanted me to try; I found it to be in all ways most
satisfying, as it surrounded me with a golden warmth, but without any of the
base qualities that liqueur sometimes seems to have.
In the mail were packages of small, but exquisitely
crafted cigarettes, and, upon my sampling them, found them to be satisfactory
as well.
At the top of the walls was an etched and marked
tray ceiling, from which depended in scalloped, arcing lines, hundreds, and hundreds
of puppets, from ‘Pierrot’, to ‘William Tell’, from childish, bucolic efforts
to those with more edge, to some as frightening as to have been the product of
utter nightmare.
At the end of this enormous room—mounted on the
wall—was at least an eight-foot wide, flat, television screen; this passingly
displayed the news, but as the volume was off, it was ignored.
None of us had health problems, and I reveled in
every second I spent with my mom and dad.
And, although it was a dream, on some abstract or
visceral level, I knew that something was wrong. And that my mother and father were dead.
Still, even with an uncertain anxiety, I chose the illusion, quite content to
stay there.
But in time, everything must die; dreams must die by
fading before an unwelcome reality. I
did my best—I believe—to hold on to various elements as they faded away,
slipping-through my mind’s hands, each element becoming irretrievably lost.
I fought most hard about my father and mother,
losing ground to their presence, then their awareness, then their shadows,
until the echoes of even quantum particles were forcibly taken from me. I believed I would have gladly given my life
at the time to remain there; to hear my parent’s happy laughter, and their kind
exchanges, to have them near me.
Sometimes, it seems, the simulacrum of an object would—by taking the
ascendant—become more ‘real’ than the
object itself.
Suddenly I was wide awake as the dirty tide of
unwanted reality coursed over me. And,
perhaps it was not strange that there was a deep regret that surpassed all
other regrets.
What had waked me up to full awareness, was the very
real need to get up to the bathroom. It
then struck me with a kind of irony ( perhaps known only to adults ),
that—quite against my will—I had been forced, cast out, from but an example of
Eden, by nature of having a full bladder.
End
I
thank you for your most kind, and understanding patience, and loyal readership,
my dearest friends. Please always know
that you ever occupy a large place within my heart.
‘Zahc’/Charles
