Dreams

Normally, I wouldn't write before school, but I'm just feeling weird, and maybe putting it here will make some of the bits and pieces fall into place so I can identify the cause and I can get on with it all today. I went to bed reading E.E. Cummings, feeling fairly peaceful or at least no more stress than usual on a day before the work week begins. I woke up with a head full of dreams and a stomach full of acid, neither of which is conducive to a good Monday.

The Topamax, amongst its other lovely characteristics, almost always keeps me from remembering my dreams most of the time.  I've always been a vivid dreamer; my cousin L. used to tell me if he could somehow hook something up to record what I dreamed, he'd be rich, presumably from stuff in the sci-fi/fantasy/horror genres of fiction.  I recognize that mostly my dreams are my brain's way of "filing" the day away, but sometimes... sometimes...

I have some that repeat.  They're usually bad.  I have the one where deceased members of my family appear to tell me that something bad is going to happen.  I have the one where I'm on a big ship, something Titanic-esque, that sinks and one of those propellers comes down smack-dab on top of me.  And last night, I added a lesser disturbing one, not a wake-up breathless or crying, but wake up sick one, the "I have to get somewhere and can't" dream. 

I was late for an international flight.  Everything was going wrong.  I was trying to get back to the place where I was going to be living and working....the destination kept changing...sometimes I think maybe it was Costa Rica...and nobody around me was concerned.  Despite the fact that I had planned carefully, my group would not leave the hotel. Things broke down.  Bags tore or just disappeared.  My passport tried to lose itself.  The concourses literally lengthened as I was running down them in an airport that looked like a cross between Atlanta and the one in Bangkok. 

My cat woke me up before I ever found out whether or nor I got where I was supposed to be going despite all the obstacles, but since I think the next thing in the arsenal of delay was probably going to be an army of clowns pouring out of the floor grating, I'm not sorry she did.  Where does this stuff come from?  I feel ill.....