I’ve heard it said that our dreams show us who we truly are, or our hearts desire, or its just nonsensical gobbledee goop that makes no sense and is cause by whatever one happened to snack on before going to bed. Either way, as of late, my dreams have been very vivid and by far haunting.  

The one that hit really close to home was one where I was in this professional reading group and we had taken commune in a meeting room around a cherry table. Every person around this oblong oval had a stack of manuscripts in front of him. The first one they happen to read is mine. The leader of the group, this young, thin, boy, opens up my novel and begins to read out loud. He gets two paragraphs in and shouts “garbage!” and chucks it into a metal trash bin. I sit there astounded as he says, “onto the next.” 

I woke up in a panic from this dream. Like I said, it hit dangerously close to home because I already think of my novel as worthless fluff.  I have no confidence in my writing. And any that I may drudge up from the pit of my guts is immediately incinerated because somewhere in my life I was taught that any form of self confidence, no matter how small, is borderline vanity. Oh well. As long as it doesn’t keep me from writing.  

My dream from last night has got to be the best. It had moments of panic and shame but overall it was good. I was the star of a touring Broadway musical. It was fantastic. I wish I could remember the whole thing. I just remember it being about a guy that goes to war and then travels the world trying to find himself and expressing his journey in song. It was titled “gypsy…” every time I looked at the title in my dream the last few words were blurred and I never knew. I just remember thinking, in dream, I need to remember this title so I can buy the album when I wake up.  

Sing a couple songs at karaoke and all of a sudden I think I’m hot shit.  

Again… Pride. Arrogance. I’m not allowed to think anything good about myself. 

Oh well.