Le cycle de rêve de la sirène
As soon as I saw there was finally a 4th comment on my last post, I knew it would be Hannah nagging me to update. Relax, O impatient one, I'm heading that direction.
This is another post about a dream I had, wherein I shall describe the dream and its impact on my mood/thought process today, then proceed to psychoanalyze myself/overdose on introspection. If you are tired of these sorts of posts, you're not the only one. Unfortunately, I feel compelled to keep doing this. It's the only thing I want to write about (me? egocentric? no...) so I at least thought I could have the decency to warn you beforehand. If you don't want to be exposed to any more of the twisted inner workings of my psyche, go here and watch some carrots dance. Thank you.
Alrighty then. On with it I get.
Last night's dream sucked. It just sucked sucked sucked. But in a way, it was good too. It reminded me that I'm doing the right thing (in a very twisted sort of way). In the dream, I was reminded what it was like to be in love. Nay, I *was* in love, in the dream. I was taken back to that time five years ago when I was really, truly in love. None of the weird, complicated, dumb stuff that happened later, but the first, pure, true, real love. I think most of you know who I'm talking about, but he isn't the point. He has absolutely nothing to do with any of it. The way you love someone is about you, not them, because it doesn't matter how they feel about you, or even really how they treat you, what you feel for them remains something that is occurring within yourself. Is this making sense?
By the by, if you don't think a 15-year-old can really be in love, you are an ignorant fool. You just are. It may not be the kind of love that you build a marriage on, and you may feel more comfortable calling it "infatuation", but it is real love. It's the kind of love you'd die for; Romeo and Juliet love. It is irrational and reckless and stupid and immature, but in my opinion it is one of the purest forms love can take. Romeo and Juliet were blind, stupid children overcome with passion to the point of irrationality, but that's kind of the point. Young, dumb love like that is completely pure, undilluted by reason and experience and maturity. Yes, it is often a bad thing in that it causes people to do very dangerous and stupid things. It causes people to ignore and often sacrifice what they should be focusing on. It puts blinders on you, it makes you an idiot. Still, there is something very precious about that kind of love. The first love happens because you want it; because you're not afraid of getting hurt, you're too young to feel mortal, and your brain doesn't have that little voice that rambles on about consequences yet. When you're in love for the first time, you go all the way. You throw all of your mind body and soul into the same proverbial basket and don't even consider what will happen if said basket is dropped into a meat grinder.
I took a lot of abuse before I learned NOT TO DO THAT anymore. I hear that in time, you learn to do it again, because it's absolutely necessary to throw caution to the wind and take the risk in order to find the real love, the love of your life. Right now though, I'm not in a throwing mood. It's not really a throwing year. Or maybe a throwing decade. The point is, in the dream, it all came rushing back. It wasn't in the happy phase though, it was in the ripping-out-of-the-heart phase. It was the First True Love Gets Her First True Heartbroken phase. And the one word that sums it up? Desperation. It was that hunger that was more than hunger, it was suffocation. I felt that feeling that I was drowning and he was air. It wasn't lust, it was just a burning need to be close to him, physically, mentally, spiritually (by the way, I realize that my cliché-o-meter has not only gone off the scale, but has actually overloaded to the point of explosion. The pieces are scattered around the room and I'm fiddling with the little arrow right now. There goes another fifty bucks). It wasn't *him* him in the dream, so don't get all freaked out. It was a stand in guy, but the feeling was the same. Like I said, it has very little to do with him. It's all about me. Me, me, me. That's right. Me.
Okay, so what actually happened in said dream, you ask ("no! i didn't ask!" you cry. well, too bad.)? Well, we were standing in front of my house and he asked for his journals back. In reality, they're *my* journals, but in the dream they were originally his, then while I was his girlfriend he gave them to me and I started writing in them, and now he wanted them back. I started to give them back to him, then opened one to find where I had started writing in it, in case he wanted to tear my pages out. At the top of the page was a header like I always write, in my handwriting, in ink from my sparkly pink pen, and the date was 2001. Then I started thinking about "when he hurt me", which doesn't make sense outside the dream, but apparently "when he hurt me" was symbolized by him crashing a plane into my house. As I thought about it, it manifested itself, and, though he was standing next to me, on the ground, a plane appeared a flew over my house, then banked around like it had the first time, coming back to fly into my house. This time, however, he grabbed me and flung me a few yards away, then covered me with himself (very movie-like, all heroic and such), protecting my from the explosion of the plane (lots of fire). It sounds sexy, but it wasn't. Just really, really painful because hey, just a reminder that we weren't together anymore. Apparently, the first time the plane had destroyed my house, but this time when we got up and the smoke cleared, the plane was destroyed but my house intact. That's kind of all I remember.
If you want a breakdown of the symbolism, or at least what I think it means, flying= usually something sexual, his plane=his sexuality; crashing=well duh; house=mind, brain; my house=my brain. Interp: first time he hurt me I was vulnerable to it, his sexuality got into/destroyed my mind. The second time, my mind was stronger than his influence and wasn't hurt.
The symbolism of events is kinda fun and all well and good, but the point is the way the emotions and experience of the dream affected me. Being taken back to that place, however unreal it was, was like giving a recovering alcoholic a shot of whiskey. It took me most of the morning to put myself back together again (I reserve the right to be depressed/angsty at any time), but it reminded me that it's good that I'm keeping myself somewhat isolated right now. I don't need that crap messing me up anymore. It really is like a drug. A very bad drug. That's why I refer to myself as "clean"... I've been clean for a year and four months now. Let's keep it up.
The title of this post is french for (i think) "The dream cycle of the siren". I thought it would be a good title if I were to start a blog just for my dreams... but then what would I post here? "Anything else!" you cry. Well that's just too bad.
This is another post about a dream I had, wherein I shall describe the dream and its impact on my mood/thought process today, then proceed to psychoanalyze myself/overdose on introspection. If you are tired of these sorts of posts, you're not the only one. Unfortunately, I feel compelled to keep doing this. It's the only thing I want to write about (me? egocentric? no...) so I at least thought I could have the decency to warn you beforehand. If you don't want to be exposed to any more of the twisted inner workings of my psyche, go here and watch some carrots dance. Thank you.
Alrighty then. On with it I get.
Last night's dream sucked. It just sucked sucked sucked. But in a way, it was good too. It reminded me that I'm doing the right thing (in a very twisted sort of way). In the dream, I was reminded what it was like to be in love. Nay, I *was* in love, in the dream. I was taken back to that time five years ago when I was really, truly in love. None of the weird, complicated, dumb stuff that happened later, but the first, pure, true, real love. I think most of you know who I'm talking about, but he isn't the point. He has absolutely nothing to do with any of it. The way you love someone is about you, not them, because it doesn't matter how they feel about you, or even really how they treat you, what you feel for them remains something that is occurring within yourself. Is this making sense?
By the by, if you don't think a 15-year-old can really be in love, you are an ignorant fool. You just are. It may not be the kind of love that you build a marriage on, and you may feel more comfortable calling it "infatuation", but it is real love. It's the kind of love you'd die for; Romeo and Juliet love. It is irrational and reckless and stupid and immature, but in my opinion it is one of the purest forms love can take. Romeo and Juliet were blind, stupid children overcome with passion to the point of irrationality, but that's kind of the point. Young, dumb love like that is completely pure, undilluted by reason and experience and maturity. Yes, it is often a bad thing in that it causes people to do very dangerous and stupid things. It causes people to ignore and often sacrifice what they should be focusing on. It puts blinders on you, it makes you an idiot. Still, there is something very precious about that kind of love. The first love happens because you want it; because you're not afraid of getting hurt, you're too young to feel mortal, and your brain doesn't have that little voice that rambles on about consequences yet. When you're in love for the first time, you go all the way. You throw all of your mind body and soul into the same proverbial basket and don't even consider what will happen if said basket is dropped into a meat grinder.
I took a lot of abuse before I learned NOT TO DO THAT anymore. I hear that in time, you learn to do it again, because it's absolutely necessary to throw caution to the wind and take the risk in order to find the real love, the love of your life. Right now though, I'm not in a throwing mood. It's not really a throwing year. Or maybe a throwing decade. The point is, in the dream, it all came rushing back. It wasn't in the happy phase though, it was in the ripping-out-of-the-heart phase. It was the First True Love Gets Her First True Heartbroken phase. And the one word that sums it up? Desperation. It was that hunger that was more than hunger, it was suffocation. I felt that feeling that I was drowning and he was air. It wasn't lust, it was just a burning need to be close to him, physically, mentally, spiritually (by the way, I realize that my cliché-o-meter has not only gone off the scale, but has actually overloaded to the point of explosion. The pieces are scattered around the room and I'm fiddling with the little arrow right now. There goes another fifty bucks). It wasn't *him* him in the dream, so don't get all freaked out. It was a stand in guy, but the feeling was the same. Like I said, it has very little to do with him. It's all about me. Me, me, me. That's right. Me.
Okay, so what actually happened in said dream, you ask ("no! i didn't ask!" you cry. well, too bad.)? Well, we were standing in front of my house and he asked for his journals back. In reality, they're *my* journals, but in the dream they were originally his, then while I was his girlfriend he gave them to me and I started writing in them, and now he wanted them back. I started to give them back to him, then opened one to find where I had started writing in it, in case he wanted to tear my pages out. At the top of the page was a header like I always write, in my handwriting, in ink from my sparkly pink pen, and the date was 2001. Then I started thinking about "when he hurt me", which doesn't make sense outside the dream, but apparently "when he hurt me" was symbolized by him crashing a plane into my house. As I thought about it, it manifested itself, and, though he was standing next to me, on the ground, a plane appeared a flew over my house, then banked around like it had the first time, coming back to fly into my house. This time, however, he grabbed me and flung me a few yards away, then covered me with himself (very movie-like, all heroic and such), protecting my from the explosion of the plane (lots of fire). It sounds sexy, but it wasn't. Just really, really painful because hey, just a reminder that we weren't together anymore. Apparently, the first time the plane had destroyed my house, but this time when we got up and the smoke cleared, the plane was destroyed but my house intact. That's kind of all I remember.
If you want a breakdown of the symbolism, or at least what I think it means, flying= usually something sexual, his plane=his sexuality; crashing=well duh; house=mind, brain; my house=my brain. Interp: first time he hurt me I was vulnerable to it, his sexuality got into/destroyed my mind. The second time, my mind was stronger than his influence and wasn't hurt.
The symbolism of events is kinda fun and all well and good, but the point is the way the emotions and experience of the dream affected me. Being taken back to that place, however unreal it was, was like giving a recovering alcoholic a shot of whiskey. It took me most of the morning to put myself back together again (I reserve the right to be depressed/angsty at any time), but it reminded me that it's good that I'm keeping myself somewhat isolated right now. I don't need that crap messing me up anymore. It really is like a drug. A very bad drug. That's why I refer to myself as "clean"... I've been clean for a year and four months now. Let's keep it up.
The title of this post is french for (i think) "The dream cycle of the siren". I thought it would be a good title if I were to start a blog just for my dreams... but then what would I post here? "Anything else!" you cry. Well that's just too bad.
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