Shit has been strange around here lately. I mean the planet, but, more intimately, my circle of people on the planet, most of whom are in North and South America. The example I’m about to give is most demonstrative of the kind of weird and though 100 percent true it also didn’t happen, not in the sense that, say, a wave happens or a goat happens.
I had a dream at the end of a nap. I’ve insisted and continue to insist that 1) I don’t dream and 2) writing about dreams is boorish at best.
Not remembering dreams is a function of the medication I take to sleep at night. Perhaps I’ve made the whole thing regarding dreams seem more cryptic, I probably had my reasons for that. It’s never included naps though it’s a recent thing the napping thing.
This was not a dream wherein things happened. There was no plot, and yet certain people would sacrifice what they hold dearest for a dream like the one I had; it makes the dream interesting if only for the irony.
The dream was a song. That’s all there was to it. It was a song I had never heard before and even in my dream, as it was too when I woke, I knew the dream was the composition of the song. I had to say it that way because I did not dream that I composed a song; that’d be downright mundane and proof that Americans, at least this one, really don’t understand irony. I dreamed into existence a composition heretofore unheard. Um, to the best of my knowledge, I don’t recall ever hearing it, but, for the sake of rational thought I might concede that my sub-conscious at some point had heard the song and conspired with my ego to make the dream. That’s the sort of shit that sucks all the magic out of the world though, so, until I hear the song anywhere else, I’m going with I dreamed a composition (song seems too simple for the grandeur of the piece).
The irony is that I don’t write songs, have, at my most ambitious only a small fleeting desire to write a song. I mean I studied enough music theory and play enough different instruments that my writing a song is well within the borders of plausible. But I’m going to write that one and, honestly, it’s kept me disturbed all day.
That’s the irony, for anyone who wanted that dream it’s a fucking godsend, a miracle, and there’s no few number that would love that miracle. Let’s be generous to mankind and say a good ten percent of that number only want their perfect song to bring joy to others the way a good composition can. Oh, yeah, that … Um, seemed pretty good to me, but, you know, it was my dream, objectively …? I don’t really know. I think people who believe they dream a song believe that song is going to be pretty fucking good. More than ninety percent of them will die without having that dream.
Me, a guy who doesn’t even really dream, has that dream a good, well, at least a day before he dies (Christ I’m hoping it’s longer, like two days at least) and hardly gives a shit, even has the audacity to be annoyed, disturbed by it and then write about that and even so not that directly but more as an example of a weird ass week.
Yeah, I’m going to shut up now and maybe contemplate what a brat I am. A cranky old curmudgeon of a brat.
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