dreaming stories

I’m a dreamy, unfocused state after the much-needed holiday in the
middle of the week, and now the rest of the week feels like a holiday,
too, except I’m working. No one else seems to be working, but I’m
working. Which makes working feel like a dream. Which is weird, since
my dreams have been filled with work.

I’ve had a series of odd dreams recently, in which work and who knows
what subconscious things are swirled together in mysterious cocktails
of mood, fiction, and reality.

My dreams are often like action movies, minus the violence and the loud
explosions. There are often chase scenes, and mysteries to be
solved. I’m always the detective, the good guy, the woman on the run
from some evil. I generally enjoy these dreams; they’re long and
involved, like movies. Often I can wake up from them, and if I’m
confused by a lack of outcome, can go back to sleep and continue the
story. Perhaps, in the end, the dreams are stories that I need to tell.

Which is why it feels startling to arrive at work after a night of
living vivid, complex stories. Going about my daily life feels so much
less interesting, less driven by plot and mood, and more driven by the
necessity to do what needs to be done. But there I am, still captivated
by a story, unable to settle into my daily routine. It’s all the more
disconcerting when no one else seems to be working.

This is a little bit what happens to me when I am having a good writing
day, when I’m able to spend several hours writing. I come up for air,
but can’t let go of the internal musing that goes along with the
process. Billy tends to ask me what’s wrong when I emerge from such a
writing session; I guess I must seem preoccupied, and I know I am
quiet.

Perhaps that’s why this morning, after a night of strange swirling
dreams in which everything seemed upended, I wrote a couple of pages in
my notebook, while riding the train in to work. I even went a stop too
far, so that I could finish my thoughts, and just walked the extra
couple of blocks back toward the office. I felt like I could just keep
riding and it wouldn’t matter, just as if I was in a dream, still.

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