Dreams of a new bed

I had started to write this in my increasingly-worn journal, but an insistent kitty whose name ends in 'Leyla' plopped herself on top of the half-filled page. I guess I'm fortunate that she doesn't find this keyboard comfortable.

Anyway.

Thursday night, I finally got my new bed. It's a king, which means no matter which direction I plop onto it, I fit. Yet despite that, I still find myself its right side, near the edge. That's always been my place on a shared bed, near the edge because I tend to pick bed hogs. (I slept on the left side with Amy. I wonder if that means anything?)

But I digress. Every night in this bed, I've dreamt long storied dreams, almost cinematically epic in scope.

One night involved not one, but two separate plane crashes. I watched the first, a large Lufthansa jet struggling to gain altitude during takeoff, clipping into buildings past the end of the runway and flipping onto its now-wingless back in a giant cloud of dust and debris. Later, in a series of events that only made sense in dreamland, I was in another (much smaller) jet that had suddenly transitioned from being in the clouds to rolling along a dirt road, trees leaving twisted green smears along its increasingly-shredded wings. I was the only one onboard who thought this was odd. While not technically a crash (I think we actually arrived at the destination, minus most of the wings) it still had that sense of a disaster/failure about it.

My therapist would say that this was a thinly-disguised metaphor about my relationship(s). She would probably be correct.

Let's see, what else. In one I was sort of tourist that stumbled into some sort of cold-war-era spy-thriller-esque situation, ending up with everyone on both sides chasing after me as I scrambled to stay one step ahead of them. The feeling wasn't one of chest-thumping testosterone-fueled fantasy-fulfilment, but rather one of sheer stay-ahead-of-everyone-else survival. In the end, I'd managed to extricate myself, and return the somethingorother that I'd inadvertently picked up, but as I was about to walk away, the Americans managed to fuck it all up. Typical. Wondering how I'd get myself out of that new mess, I woke up.

Last night was another epic series of events, but I only remember what happened right before I awoke. I was face-to-face with someone who I can best describe as a slightly-freckled Julia Roberts (albeit with a smaller, better-proportioned mouth). It was an almost-compromising situation, looking deep into each other's eyes, but what stood out the most was the expression on her face. It was one of joy, radiantly beautiful, bright-eyed, whole face alight.

Again, this wasn't testosterone-induced lust-fueled chest-thumping fantasy-fulfilment. That expression on her face wasn't (directly) inspired by me; she was the kind of person who existed in a state of joy, at ease with herself and the world, the sort that leaves beauty in her wake. And perhaps she was also a little happy to see me too?

That's when I woke up, at 0455. What followed was one of those "damnit, I want to see what happens next!" attempts to fall back asleep, but after being in bed for most of the past 14 hours (yay for allergy-med-induced comas), my body and mind would have none of it.

Those incorrigible teases.