I had another violent dream last night. We got into a fight - and tried to ignite - the hate within us both - as if to host - the demons that haunt us for a moment or two.
I yelled, you stepped forward with a knife that you drew from up your sleeve, and I did the same - a small pocket knife from which I abstained - from lunging at you, though the urge was clear and with the slightest twitch of your ear, you came at me, knife in hand, punctured my stomach and swore "god damn!".
I raised my knife up to your chest. I pressed and said do it. But you couldn't and I knew it. You paused. You hesitated, your brow began to sweat. I lowered my knife, and pressed forward toward yours. Your eyes were screaming as mine fell to the floor.
I watched you pull the knife from my gut and bury it in your own and begin to cut. You fell to the ground, bleeding out. I saw a car coming and my mind started to shout - "RUN!" - you can't take the blame for this! As I sprinted, I looked back and felt quite amiss, as the car was sure enough, the local police. I ran even harder as though to release - the guilt of knowing. The sorrow of shame. To release the heartache and all of the blame.
I saw the lights come on and heard the sirens to blare. I got to the door and walked in without a care. With that I woke up. Still lying in bed, fancy pillow still cradling my head, thinking to myself, "damn, that could be in a book." I wondered what it meant, so I took a deeper look:
To me I saw the fear in his eyes, the woe. The hurt, the sorrow inside. The knowing that this world was not for him. The cold in his heart and the sweat on his brim.
It was me.
A part, that is, that died last night. It was the me that tried to kill my dreams on sight. Quick to pull a knife, but slow to use it and in the end, took his life, as he sought to abuse it. The police was that shred of doubt, still holding on, telling me that chasing my dreams was still in the wrong.
Running towards the door, the siren that blared, was there to distract me, to try to impair - my thoughts, my feelings, my knowing I was right. To feel with my heart and not with the knife. To recognize the coward that stood before the man. To exorcize the demons that try to ruin all my plans.
This dream was meant to be, to show me life is real. To show how weak that life can make me feel. But then to prove a point, it shows me I can change. These crazy pawns in my life are there to re-arrange.
Dreams can set your world on fire. Feed into your deepest desires. Recognize what they're telling you. To yourself and mind, always stay true.
David Lowrie
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