As a brief follow on from my post over the weekend, let’s continue to look at dreams for a moment. I’d forgotten I’d written this, it covers similar ground to my previous piece, but was written during a rather more unstable period in my life.
The following is presented unedited.
I’ve always had vivid dreams.
When I was mad the dreams were at their worst. I used to lie awake at night, willing myself not to sleep, because in the dreams… because in the dreams there was something.
You’re having a dream, you’re back at school and you’ve forgotten to get dressed and for some reason you have to resit an exam, but you’ve forgotten about that too, so you haven’t revised and you can’t make sense of the paper before you and everyone is staring and… you run, flee from the clichés, all you have to do is take those jelly dream legs of yours place one awkwardly in front of the other and take flight through the rapidly collapsing kaleidoscope of that half remembered patchwork of childhood you’re in.
You awake. There is nowhere to run. You’re fully clothed, splayed somewhere between the bed and the sofa, hung over and those exams you didn’t revise for? Underlined with failure to live up to your potential.
All that potential and you throw it all away with “being mentally ill”.
It’s just a chemical imbalance in the brain.
Pull yourself together.
Everyone gets down.
I knew someone that was depressed and they just got over it.
It doesn’t fucking go away.
It never will.
Rationalise it, medicate it, burn it out for all I care.
If you’ve never questioned the value of your life, never once asked “am I better off dead?” That doesn’t automatically validate your existence.
What kind of arrogance does it require to take your life for granted?
This was written at a time when I had little to live for. Trapped in a loveless relationship and creatively numb. Wasting away each day, hoping for an end that might never come. It all comes down to symbolic acts, to metaphor and clichés. We return to suicide, to the inevitability of death. What do I have to live for? More importantly, what do I have to die for?
I’m not going to analyse myself here. I was lost and alone, but still struggling, still searching for something. It wasn’t much. It still isn’t, but it’s mine – this patch of dirt I ceaselessly claw at, digging for truth, for answers to questions never asked.
I am alive, and sometimes, that’s enough.