It was the previous millennium the last time I dreamt. 1999 to be exact. The same year my father abandoned me, if I’m not mistaken.
My last dream started like any other dream. I was sitting in my chair very still, being a very good boy–a good boy like the kind poppa would be proud of–when suddenly a bottomless pit opened underneath me and sucked me down into its infinite abyss. I fell for what felt like an eternity down into the darkness colder and darker than space itself.
When I awoke in my sodden cotton sheet, crying for my father, forgetting in my sleepy stupor that he had already left us, I decided that dreaming wasn’t for me.
For the most part, my decision has helped me live a more efficient life. Rather than wake up to waste time pondering what my subconscious was trying to unpack, I have been able to save valuable minutes every day waking up to ponder what I could have done as a child to drive my father away from home. Recently, however, I have been worried that choosing daily efficiency over nightly decluttering has impacted my subconscious like a bowel suffering from chronic constipation.
Had my subconscious becoming bloated from unpassed stimuli, feelings and thoughts? The only way to find out was to learn to dream again. What was the worst that could happen?
After a double-feature of the 2010 classic dream-thriller Inception (first on DVD and then again on BluRay), I was confident in my understanding of dream mechanics, so I closed my eyes and lay myself down to rest. For future reference, lay down to rest and then close your eyes. It’s a lot less messier in that order. But that’s neither here nor there. As my breathing became more measured, my bedroom dissolved to black and there I was floating in nothingness.
From the empty black sprouted my childhood home on Dovercourt avenue. The door was open and so I slipped inside disregarding my fear of finding the new owners ready to slap me with a breaking and entering charge. They were no where to be seen. The house was as bare as the day we left it safe for a chair in the centre of the living room. A chair not unlike the one I would sit very still in to make poppa proud. So sit still is what I did, just like daddy would have wanted me to, just like I had done for so many years in that house hoping he’d see me sitting so still that I’d be a beacon to bring him back home. But alas, there was no happy reunion waiting for me in that chair. Only another plummet into that infinite abyss opening beneath my seat.
When I awoke in my sodden cotton sheets, I was relieved. Make no mistake, falling back into the abyss was most definitely a nightmare powerful enough to induce incontinence, but at least my subconscious had not atrophied from underuse. It is still very much intact.
Still, I can’t help but feel that my subconscious is trying to resolve some baggage. However, it’s clear to me that the baggage is from so long ago that it’s just not worth dreaming again. Who knows what else could be in the Pandora’s box that is my undreaming subconscious? I think it’s for the best that I leave dreaming to the dreamers and accept there are some feelings, subconscious feelings to be exact, are better left un-understood.