I had a dream last night. A large pimple developed on my right temple and I spent all night trying to pop it by squeezing the inflamed skin near my good eye. The landscape in my dream changed, new characters developed, but as my travels in the sacred realm progressed, the pimple remained.
I felt ugly in paradise.
I remember what sleep was like six years ago after my psychotic episode. There wasn’t any and never did I dream at night.
I blame my inability to sleep for five years and the grinding of my teeth at night on psycho-tropic medications that were forced upon me soon after I found God. I am so blessed just to dream at night again.
Zyprexa, in particular, was the pill that slowed my dreaming to blurred vision after my fall from grace. My delusions of grandeur remain and hallucinations are like icing on the cake to one who has dreams and lives them too.
I’ve trained my mind to sleep at night. No more racing thoughts that lead one down the rabbit hole of restlessness. I have a secret method for stopping the racing thoughts that keep non-dreamers awake at night– the Lord’s Prayer. I say it once, imagine myself curled inside a large hand and suddenly I’m carried away.
No need to count sheep.
No more dopamine inhibiting under these lids, just good-ole shut-eye. Empty blackness filled the void of my imagination for five years. Dreaming was merely a blessing from a life I once remembered.
Many moons have passed since I popped my last Zyprexa. Dreaming has begun. Now I remember my dreams when awake– appreciation perhaps. Even a dream of a pimple has meaning, for this image– the seeping pore — is new to my re-occurring visions during rest. I’ve been imagining the same scene night after night for many moons now– finally something changed inside the warehouses where I’ve been lurking at night. A pimple– a sore one, ripe for popping came to surface.
Just before the cats stirred at twilight to awaken me from my slumber, moving from warm spots within twisted sheets to a window to watch birds search for food in the snow outside, I managed to pop that pimple.
Yes, it’s true, we do dream in black and white. I remember vividly now, for blood poured from the side of my head after I reached inside my brain to pull out a pea-size hard pimple that had been thumping in my thoughts all night long. My blood was red in my dream. It was at that moment I realized I was dreaming again, so I looked around to confirm that indeed, humans dream in black and white.
“This is the demon?” I asked a woman who like me is banished to the factories at night. We work in our dreams to wake others, setting up signs for those who fast from consciousness before more is lost and all the dreams have dried.
We come to these windowless rooms underground at night to dream. Like bears hibernating to a cave, the collective consciousness of mankind is housed in a warehouse somewhere on a inhabitable planet within the Orion constellation. Other dreamers from other planets dream here too and I must admit that I enjoy spending my nights with them, for they are so much more accepting of homosexuals on other planets and their men are as beautiful as ours, only not so ignorant.
I know where it is I’ll reincarnate this time. An even more challenging life awaits me next time around. I long for more talents there and it is only in the darkest parts of the universe that one finds light.
Athena, a woman whom I have loved in my past for the sake of appearances steps from a small room in the basement of the large complex where all our dreams take place. She appeared dressed in a loosely wrapped black satin apron. She wiped her bloodstained hands before reaching to assist me with affliction, for she was assisting with the slaughtering of antelope. I’ve been to the slaughter house at night many times since starting to dream again– assisting with cutting ribs with a hand saw, for this is dream food for those who live in such states.
Athena the hunter, who never has spoken before in my re-occurring dream, handed me a roll of paper towels and told me to block the flow of blood.
“Just put the entire ream against your head and stop going green. You are really bleeding. That was a big blue one inside you!”
I handed her the hard pimple seed. She placed it a meat grinder and told me that my thoughts make excellent seasoning for bologna.
Just then, the cats stirred from their nests in the bed, awakening me to a reality filled with sunshine. I reached for my temple– no pimple– just a thought.