Thursday, April 26, 2012

Preservation

I had a dream last night that I traveled back in time to somewhere in my life, but at current, I can’t pick out where exactly.  I saw faces from my old life, familiar ones, but that’s all they were, blurry, yet familiar faces.  I was talking with someone, explaining, listening, debating – about what, I can’t remember, and with whom I also can’t remember.  I don’t remember my purpose for time traveling either but I remember speaking with a woman and she was saying to me that I already have her heart, just remember, that I already have her heart.   I don’t know what that means right now, and without more of the dream, I’m not sure I can even analyze very well.  I also don’t know if this was a woman from my past or a guide (think Scrooge and A Christmas Carol) but I didn’t get a sense of familiarity – not as I’m trying to remember and writing this anyway.

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In the later part of high school and especially in college, I used to slam out what I considered good poetry.  Most was dark and depressing - you know, silent screaming, drowning, and not being able to breathe, being crushed (spirit and soul only), all that good stuff.  Then, it just stopped, as abruptly as it began.

It used to flow freely from my hand: I would get a set of lines and write them down, and that was like the water cresting the levee - it would just flow.  I haven't written a solid piece of poetry, nay, even had a slight idea for one in years.

I suspect that the stories and poems were an outlet for some of repressed ... everything.  My despair came through in my poems, and some hope came through as well, but it was mostly of me stewing in my melancholy, sometimes pleading, but mostly stewing.

I remember the instances where an idea for a poem would punch right in the brain and I would rush to write it down.  Gosh, I didn’t even edit them, they just were, perfect as I could get them, there down on paper.  I didn’t want to edit them either – I hypothesize now it was because I wanted to preserve whatever emotion was present that lead me to write the poem.  I have since not really edited very many of my poems, just changed some words around and not very many at that, and still feel that I must leave as much of it intact as I can, for fear of changing whatever emotion tied to the string of words.

Now though, every once in a while, a scene will emerge in my head, a scene from what could be a story of some kind, and I feel I have to write it down, it may lead to something better!  But it doesn’t, it’s just a single scene, often something like a guy standing somewhere, in a rubble-filled street, or an open field.  And that’s it – he’s got no history, no future, he’s just … there.  On occasion, I’ll get some perhaps more emotionally driven scene: for instance, a sentence popped into my head the other day wherein someone was experiencing his/her spirit be lifted and pulled up and out of the body.  It wasn’t painful, it just happened.  I didn’t know where else to go with that because I knew that couldn’t be all of the story.  Then I got down on myself for not being able to think of some kind message or convey or story to tell and the sentence and image faded.  Which is why I don’t have it now with me to recall clearly.

Well that was useless, I’d said.
Yeah…, I replied, half agreeing, half still wanting to explore these one scene eruptions of thought.

It’s said that we dream many times during the night, but when I wake up, I very rarely remember any of the dreams, and hardly even parts.  I feel that was the case during my entire life.  Whether it was because I just didn’t really care about dreams, or because, well maybe I didn’t have any (can a person just NOT dream?), my dreams are very few.  Perhaps sleep was a time where I could get away from everything and in my head, I could go wherever, and where I wanted to go was…to Nowhere – a place with nothing.  I suppose that’s pretty sad. 

I keep saying it, but I really have to do it: write down my dreams when I get up!!!

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