Even with the help of Mother Pharmaceutical I'm still having trouble sleeping. My brain buzzes with thoughts and ideas and worries and dreams and nightmares and songs. Yes, songs. Have you ever noticed the soundtrack that plays in your head. It's like I've had an Ipod surgically implanted into my brain stem. No matter how much chatter, or how little chatter for that matter, is going on in my head, there is still room for a song to play over and over again. Last night it was an 80's pop song by "Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam" called "Head to Toe". Why my amygdala decided that one was worth storing is beyond me.
So I'm lying in bed. This song is playing like the needle's stuck and my heart is racing like I've just climbed 10 flights of stairs. My brain fixates on some thoughts which swirl around and around in some cerebral cat and mouse game. I wish I were dead. All I want is to sleep. Sweet, glorious sleep. To sleep perchance to dream. Finally my prayer to the God of somnolence is answered.
I enter my first of many vivid dreams that night. Active dreams. Dreams where I wake up more tired than I was before it all started. I dream of conflict and escape. I'm running but not getting anywhere. There are people, some I know, some seem strange to me. And of course there's still some song setting the scene in the background.
As far back as I can remember most of my dreams have centered around a desperate search for something, usually relief of some sort. Often I've gotta pee so bad and can't find a washroom. Or I do and the door only reaches my knees. Or it's on a stage and everyone is watching.
When I was a child, I had this recurring dream where I was being chased by a giant spider through a department store. I couldn't just run away though because for some reason I was naked and had to make my way to safety while hiding under one clothing rack after another, so I wouldn't be seen by the spider or anyone else. Oh Freud, where art thou?
Sometimes I'm looking for sexual relief in my dreams. And yet, at the age of 32, I've never had sex in my dreams. Never. Whenever I get really close there is always some kind of interruption. Earlier in my life, it was usually my mother. (Gee, no surprise there. She ruined most of my fun for the first 30 years of my life.) Now, it's strangers who come and knock on my door just as I'm about to get it on. In last night's dream I was with Paolo Coelho, famous writer of The Alchemist. We were just getting snuggly when some neighbors pop by his house, without calling I might add, to say hello. I mean really, even the people in my dreams are ignorant bastards. Geesh.
So I awake to yet another day filled with frustration. Exhausted, slightly horny and quite frankly, filled with an angst and anger that seems odd for so early in the day. And I wonder what to do with the hours that lie ahead of me. All I really want to do is sleep in the hopes that maybe just maybe I'll find what I'm looking for.