I have an extremely active dream cycle. I write them down every morning. This is a habit I got into a long time ago. I would say they are strange beyond words, but everyone says that. Besides, I’m pretty sure I could make up some words if I had to.
I am well versed in my dreamscape. It wends its way in and out of lucid dreaming states and might include anything my purty little brain can come up with; a spectrum from hellish nightmare to sweet, dreaming perfection.
Last night I had a dream haze reminiscent of sleep paralysis (something I have experienced); however, I mark these scenarios as slightly different from sleep paralysis for a number of reasons (which I may go into at a later date). The experience is not unfamiliar to me, and I thought I might share the juicy details of this instance with you folks.
To set the stage, I was lying on the couch watching Lost Tapes, a rather bizarre show about cryptids and paranormality in mockumentary format and playing on Animal Planet no less. Last night’s episode was a werewolf story.
A scant 5 to 10 minutes into the episode, at the first commercial break, I turned my head away from the TV and closed my eyes. Residual ache from a migraine coupled with some annoying neck pain left me fidgeting to find a comfortable repose. I concentrated on the voice of the narrator and tried to relax. As you would expect, the listening portion of my evening quickly faded into dozing.
So begins the glorious melding of everything and nothing. The point at which the sights and sounds around you meld with creations of the mind.
The show continued to murmur to me in the back of my mind. The green walls of the room are so very familiar and comforting. Nevertheless, I really don’t feel comfortable with the snarling, orange-eyed beast peering in at me from the window. The dog is behind me to the right; I can see her sleeping when I turn my head. Her lack of concern at our night prowler is troublesome. The phantasmagorical music on the television weaves in and out of my unconsciousness.
In the midst of it all, deep down, I know that I am lying on the couch dozing. I try to awaken. A seemingly herculean task coupled with an amount of internal struggle equal to such a task.
My head is like molasses. The feeling is much like being drugged. Your muddled perception swims upward toward a clarity that recedes further and further away the harder you strive. The back of your head feels like the proverbial funny bone strike. Electric throbbing, a dull ache, and a raw, prickly tickle all collide together at once to overwhelm your senses.
My head is, for moments I am unable to measure, hovering above the pillow. My body is attempting to rise from its current stasis; balanced between Reality and Un. The physical has already partially shut down. There is only the barest of response. The futile attempt of a partially paralyzed body refusing to accept its limitations.
The effort fails. The dreamscape floods back stronger. It spurs further resolve in me. To awaken. To take back control. To arise from the chimerical fog. How many times have I made such an attempt? It’s near impossible to tell. How much longer will the window hold back the wolf? Why do I care?
After a seeming eternity, the bubble breaks. I open my eyes and blearily sit up. The show is over. The dog is not here, having gone upstairs long before I laid myself on the couch. The werewolf is no longer drooling angrily at my window. The night outside is quiet.
I feel dispossessed and woozy. Shaking off a full body shiver, I shut everything down and head for bed, though I know I have been jazzed up enough that I won’t sleep for a little while.