She’s like the wind: a dream

I dreamed last night that I dried up and blew away.

I was in a seemingly endless desert searching for water, and had been there for a while, judging by how desperate I felt. Vultures were calling and circling over me, and I could feel death close by, breathing down my neck.

I stopped sweating, stopped crying. All I could think about was water. There wasn’t any anywhere, but I still thought about it. My skin crinkled, my eyes felt like hot rocks in my head.  Still I searched for water. Everywhere I looked was sand, endless miles of it. No cacti, no sagebrush, no nothing.

Finally a wind came up. I lifted my arms in salutation, and watched in amazement as they blew away. I wasn’t afraid.  The wind blew harder and I looked down in time to see my legs and body vanishing.

The last thing I remember thinking before I blew away totally was that I hoped there was water wherever I was going.


When dreams echo real life

I dreamed that I was in a cemetery surrounded by the dead.  Not by zombies, thank god (funnily enough, when I dream of the dead it’s never zombies, or any other kind of shambling undead). No, these were spirits.

In the dream they followed me. I could feel their need of something, but I don’t know what they were looking for. When I stopped, they clustered around me in a circle.

I wasn’t hurt; nobody approached me. All I felt was their need, thick like a blanket.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. I feel the spirits every time I go to cemeteries in real life; I haven’t been to one that doesn’t have at least a few spirits around. People say that cemeteries are quiet and peaceful places, but I’ve never found them so.  Most cemeteries feel full to me, full of energy, full of need.

Maybe some of it is the time of year. I always seem to be more aware of spirits during the drawing in part of the year. It’s less in the spring and summer.

Now I’m wondering if there’s anything that can be done to quiet spirits like that.  I feel a search coming on.

Earning value

I think my concept of value is connected with earning.  Not earning money; I don’t really care much about money. It’s good to have so you can get the things you need and want, but it’s not worth killing yourself over.

And this weird concept of “earning” doesn’t extend to other people. All this stuff applies to me only.

I feel like I have to constantly earn the love of everyone I know. There’s never enough I can do. Every interaction with someone I care for is an always spinning mental rundown of what I’ve done for this person, what I’ve done to let them know I appreciate what they’ve done for me, and what more can I do for them. I’m always coming up woefully short in my mental accounting.

I kept hearing this voice in my head that says I’m nothing if I don’t give and give and give to anyone who needs it. It’s not right to accept praise for anything since it’s my purpose in life. Does a bee get thanked for flying around pollinating flowers and making the honey that the entire hive lives on? Do you praise carpenter ants for building their hills? No; they are simply doing their duty.

I feel like it’s my job to give to those in need. To do less is to not live up to my life’s purpose.

The fact that I’m always complaining about what I don’t get is a sign that I need to work harder. Maybe I need to be reminded of my place.

These things are true: an exercise

I’m trying to discover some good things about me that are true. Not the bad things; I can come up with a list of those in a heartbeat.

Good things that are true, though, not so much. I started thinking about this before bed last night, and I’ve only got one thing that I know is true, a fact, no quibbling about it.

Just one thing, how sad is that? But maybe that’s all there is. Maybe the rest of the things are just as bad as my mother’s always said.

I’m going to keep plugging away at the list–though one thing is all that’ll probably be on it.

!!!! and other emoticons

I feel…I don’t know. Sad, mad. Not even my excitement over new books can touch this. I still wish I could cry, but so far, nothing.

It’s not my family. That’s been pretty quiet. It’s something inside me, that I wish I could understand. And I have to wonder if it’s not some kind of weird response to…something?

Argh! I wish I could do something.


Fast release or slow, that is the question

Have you ever felt like doing something–crying, yelling, throwing things, whatever–but you couldn’t? Not because you didn’t feel it, or because you were in public and couldn’t, but because you just couldn’t?

I feel some emotional outburst–probably tears, to my shame–building up, wanting to spill over. But nothing’s happening. I feel like a pressure cooker–if I can vent the pressure, I’ll be all right. Nothing’s happening, though. Just the pressure, building and building. I would like to have a controlled pressure release before I end up crying oceans over some small thing.

I keep telling myself that there’s no reason to feel this way–no reason to sit here and cry my eyes out. No reason to want to. I wish I could, just to ease the churning inside.

What should I do? Should I just wait until I’m at critical mass and the lid’s off the pressure cooker, or should I keep trying for the controlled release? Is there a way to speed up the controlled release, so I can feel better faster?

Taking and emotional acrobatics

I don’t know what my problem is right now. For the last few days I’ve been trying to understand why I’m suddenly obsessed with what I don’t have and why I can’t seem to shut up and take it when it’s offered.

What’s lacking in me that taking is so hard? Other people take with no trouble, no emotional acrobatics. Not me; everything has to be looked at and looked at, and brushed off and looked at again–and that’s before the serious thinking happens.

I feel like I’m always on guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I feel like a giant fraud, and I’m always afraid that one day somebody somewhere will see through me and call me out for it. I know there’s nothing to hide or nothing fake about me, but when I feel like this, all the calm, rational knowing in the world means nothing.

There’s always a small voice in the back of my brain asking who I think I am and what I think I’m doing, bothering people with my petty self. This voice assures me that if anybody knew what I was really like–what a bad, horrid person I really am–everybody I care for would run screaming for the hills. And for good, solid reasons too.

It’s really hard to shut that voice up.