There we go.
There is only so much I can take, before my mind goes pale. Today it is white.
Forgive me, dear friends. I am not in a good place at the moment, but hopefully normal service will resume soon. There is far too much going on upstairs, as per usual. But I will tell you about this short dream I had this morning, one of those just-before-waking snippets.
I’d woken at 6.30am, pottered around my room and decided my burning eyes needed a bit more rest. Climbed back into bed and zonked out for another half-hour, in which the dream unfolded.
It was night, in a city that felt like London but might have been another. I was coming home from a work-related function or party of some sort, having had a rather fantastic time – and tottering on heels no less, so it must have been swanky, to get me in a dress ‘n stilettos combi. Clambering up a flight of stone steps, I arrived at the front door of a house that isn’t familiar to me now, but it was apparently “home”, for I took out a key and let myself in. I’d had company at the party, a male presence, but that’s another untold story. He had escorted me home, was perhaps waiting outside while I got the light on – I can’t remember.
What I do remember is the flash-flare of red light on the wall, jagged in the pitch black of the room. That seemed significant in itself, as I have no need of a landline, but apparently had an answering machine in this house. The number 19 was large, red and stark as a wound. I somehow knew that 3 of the messages were old and undeleted; but the other 16 caused my throat to snag.
Pressing the button, I was met with a loud silence. That’s the only way I can describe it, a silence that is so full it might explode. Then what sounded like static, which finally resolved itself to harsh breathing … and a female voice, whispering “Help me. Help me, please someone help me.” It kept cutting out, hence the amount of messages left.
Even in the dream, I saw a vision of my mother hanging upside down, strapped into her upended car, in the darkness and cold, wet and shivering and hurt. Black and silver. Red. Her voice, or perhaps my sister’s, I couldn’t make it out – but in the dream I said, “Mummy?” in that plaintive way of adults who are afraid, when they fall back on old habits, as a kitten burrs for its mother.
As I was waking up at the same time, I spoke the word aloud.
I’ve had odd dreams like this before, so real they seem like shards of a mirror, which I must try to piece back together. More often than not, they’ve laid out a symbolic pattern of whatever is going on/is about to go on in my life. It’s happened too many times now for me to ignore, though a lot of the time it really is so fragmented that I do not believe what I’m seeing, and turn my face away – only for something to happen in reality, which draws my attention and my breath in.
Mind you, I’ve got a bad habit of finding patterns that do not exist.
Perhaps that voice I heard on the phone was actually my own.
At some point, I must sit back and work out what I am going to do with myself this year. If work at the Nick no longer becomes tenable, I have nothing more to keep me in the city. It’s already too full of ghosts. How much more can I lose? (apart from my mind. I am starting to wonder.)
We’ll see. I’m an opportunist, though. I make things happen. Ever a wanderer, and there are always new roads. This year could well turn out worse than the last, in which case I would take the last long silent road of all. You can make of that what you will. I am done with thinking today, myself.