A Nightmare

Usually I don't dream. They say that everyone dreams at night and that they just don't remember their dreams. That might be true, I really have no way of confirming that though since I don't ever remember my dreams. But my nightmares....God knows, how difficult it is to forget those.

Nightmares, just like dreams, can be vividly real and tangibly abstract at the same time. It seems as if one were even awake during some nightmares. Well, last night I had a nightmare. It used to be I'd have them often. I'm not talking about just when I was a child. No, I mean even as a young teen. Sometimes they were recurring nightmares, other times it was brand new material.

I don't want to recount last night's nightmare. Partly because I'd rather forget it but also because it got rather graphic. I'll simply give broad brushstrokes and share some of what occurred.

Last night I dreamt that I was out looking for someone. As I walked along spent roads of time I met up with an old man with his back turned to me. Tapping him on his shoulder he turned and leered at me through blind eyes. Frightened I walked on. Then I met a very well-dressed man. He was a priest. Once he turned I saw that his head was bowed not for prayer but for the weight of his tears. He was sobbing without consolation. He spoke with the choking sobs that wrack a man's chest with grief to tell me that he was looking for a little boy. An altar boy. By some strange coincidence I too was looking for a little boy. I don't really remember what happened after that except we finally found the boy. He too was huddled with his back to us and bent under the weight of tears. As I moved forward to comfort him I heard a shriek from behind me. As I turned I saw that the priest had grown bigger. He seemed to be looming ominously over the child. Immediately I dropped to my knees and enveloped the frightened child in the folds of my clothes. While sheltering the child I felt myself suddenly become the child. A strange, fantastic metamorphosis made the child become me or made me become the child. But still the priest rose above us (now me) and threatened us with who-knows-what.

When I woke up I was in a cold sweat. My entire body felt drained of strength. I got up and out of bed. Got a glass of water from the bathroom tap and put some music on. When I climbed back into bed I began to think about what I'd dreamt. I don't know what it means. I don't even know if dreams really mean anything. All I know is that I felt scared. So I did what I used to do. I did what I was taught to do as a child. I prayed. Yes, that's right. At about 4 in the morning I prayed and asked God to give me rest. I asked Him to shelter me through the night. He did. I spent the rest of the night peacefully asleep.

I also learned that I need to be more careful of what I read before going to bed. Before my night-time devotions I'd spent some time at the computer reviewing varied poems. I'd read some German poets and various other ones but then I got into newer poetry and came across one which spoke of the abuse that altar boys received under the hands of priests and others of the church. That's the kind of stuff I hate to read. I mean, I really hate it. I am very prone to feel for the character, particularly the hurt one, with deep sympathy. In a way I suppose I become more sensitive. While reading the poem I had to pause several times to take deep breaths before reading on. It would probably have been best I not read it because now I'm sure my dream was somehow linked to what I'd read about the sexual abuse those altar boys received.