I don’t usually remember my dreams.

But sometimes I do.

And I have noticed a pattern to it.

The only dreams I remember are the ones where I’m about to die.

I just can't look at it the same way....

Like that time I dreamt that my house was being broken into and explosions were going off and there was a hostage situation. Or that time I dreamt that a man lived down the street had lured me into his creepy-as-fuck house only for me to find my loved ones and close, beloved family friends all dead, hanging like marionettes (read: *NSYNC-style) in boxes in his giant living room and him chasing me around his property with a sawed-off shotgun and machete. Or that time I dreamt I was being locked in some type of school gymnasium with a fuck-ton of people because wherever the hell we were was on “lockdown” and we were all safe in the gym but then some man told us we have “two minutes to get out because this place is gonna blow the fuck up” and I woke up in a panic.

 

SEE?! This is not okay!!

I woke up this morning and my face was wet and I couldn’t breathe.

I woke up and realized I had been crying in my sleep.

This time was different. I wasn’t dreaming I was dying or about to die. I dreamt that Drew had died.

Why the fuck?! WHY?!

Do you know how disturbing that was?!

That’s my baby brother. That cannot happen. Ever. He can never die.

I was a mess in my whole dream. I was running around like a ninny, completely out of control and inconsolable. I was completely irrational and out of my mind. It was awful.

I can’t even talk about it.

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