Dream #1

I woke from a dream and began writing.

I was on a mountain. Towards the south, the trail I had hiked dropped off into a distant blue haze. Towards the east, a playground scattered lovingly across patches of vibrant green grass and children’s laughter carried over to me. Where I stood, the mountain had been worn away (it still rose up on all sides) to create a platz: dirt floored and perfectly circular. I said to no one “this is the perfect place for Shakespeare.”

I turned and found my dream had conjured a recipient for my words: a boy I did not know, had only heard of. I don’t remember his response. When I try to retrieve it I see his mouth moving but hear a strained bubbling like a clogged drain. So words didn’t matter. He took me to the edge of the mountain and we climbed up slightly to get a good view. I pressed my back against the earthen wall behind me and felt my legs dangle into an abyss (my hands sweat as I write this).

The boy left me for a crevice in the mountain. I watched his body disappear into a tunnel of red clay and knew I had to follow. I positioned myself at the mouth of the crevice. Above me was a deep blue, like the tunnel led to the bottom of the sea and I would have to swim up. Suddenly I felt bodies pushing up. Hands clamored at fingerholds around and below me and I heard the unmistakable sound of clutter and movement but no voices. A conspiratorial silence. I was supposed to climb. And then swim. And who knows what next. It was too much, the pressure, the expectation, the responsibility to not only climb but to commit to climbing for as long as it took to succeed. I slumped my body against the cool rock and woke up.