Dreams of then and now

"The Knight's Dream", 1655, by Anton...

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My nights are as turbulent as my days are still. I’m dreaming a lot these last few nights, and it seems to me my dreams are harbingers for things to come.

I dreamt the other night of my mother before she was sick. She seemed so different that when I woke I realised I had almost forgotten her like that. She was bright and engaging, extroverted and happy. In the dream there seemed little of concern, just these moments of blithe enjoyment. It made me sad thinking of it later, how those days are forever gone now, and just a memory.

I dreamt other things too, of a job where I got an unexpected promotion, and dreams with friends in them, and women I know. I seem to close my eyes these days only to begin dreaming. There is some comfort in the dreams somehow. Some reassuring solace no matter how sad, and I can’t quite explain that. Perhaps I feel sometimes I see more clearly and more deeply with  my eyes closed. Asleep all else drops away and left are those residual feelings and thought that have no shape in the daylight hours.

Unfortunately that reassurance only lasts as long as I am asleep, or am nestled still in it’s foggy tail. Awake and with the sun shining it is a different matter. Mostly, now, I am sad. There’s a lot going on, but most of it is mum for me. She declines each day. Soon enough she’ll be dead. I can’t imagine still. I don’t understand.

3 responses to “Dreams of then and now

  1. So sorry to read about your mother. Aging and declining parents are, I think, one of the saddest things about the human existence. Worst is when they’re not aware of the loss of mental / physical faculties, or are and are angry about it. It’s not a part of life I am looking forward to, I often think a swift death at the beginning of decline would be far preferable.

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    • Thanks, but Im sort of used to it now. Sounds rude maybe, but you adjust to a different set of expectations quicker than you think. I agree though, quick is better. That’s the way I’ll want it.

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      • Not rude, inevitable. I remember walking in the office door the afternoon after a parent was admitted into hospital. An odd state of mind – life has suddenly dramatically changed, and yet it is also the same.

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