I was trapped, this morning, in my dreams. I battled it out with the Dream-king, but his grip was strong, and as I emerged from sleep, the first time, I found myself in a motel room unlike any I’d ever seen, with two 14″ TVs on either side of the room, an undrawable curtain, and myself, stark naked, fully aware of the battle that was going on and adamant that I would not lose.
In my dream, I sought return to sleep, but in Morpheus’ domain, we play by his rules. For a fleeting moment, I was arguing with my brother, having a shower, preparing for work, and then trapped between warm pillows and sheets once again.
Three, four times this happened. Once I even saw his face; pasty white, dark, spiked hair, as Gaiman might have envisioned him. It was a face no conscious mind has ever witness, nor ever will.
But it was Morpheus who won. My hope of early rising was destroying; by 11.30 I was waking for the fourth and final time. The disturbing yet oddly comfortable fantasy of the Dreaming was gone, and reality was monochrome, dry-mouthed, and in need of the bathoom.
If you’re saying to yourself, “no more drugs for that man”, go read all Neil Gaiman’s brilliant “Sandman” series. You may reach the same conclusion, but at least you’ll understand where I’m coming from, and it’ll make your Dreaming more interesting.