Saturday, January 11, 2014 (original post date)
Dreams matter to me. Although I still don’t know exactly what they are – my psyche’s way of dealing with emotional issues, peeks into my doppelgangers’ life from alternate universes, or nonsensical hodge-podges of my thoughts and experiences – they have proven to be my greatest source of inspiration as well as my number one confidants and secret keepers. Dreams are indiscriminate; they will show you things you don't want to see and things that’ll leave you wondering what sort of sick desires you've been harboring your whole life. Whatever craziness stirs you in you sleep at night (or day), dreams are some reflection of you. The reflection could be clear-as-day accurate, seemingly indiscernible from life, or distorted fun house mirror reflections, or reflections of a you from a different time. Either way, dreams come from your mind – your unique, twisted, beautiful mind – and there’s no denying their connections to our selves.
Last night . . . Or more accurately, this morning, I had a dream of a past that I hang on to, a life previously lived that I still shed tears over. In the dream, my parents are not the divorced, ambivalent, and hesitant acquaintances that I watched them become, but rather they were still in love (or at the very least, some illusion of love), and still happily married. My older brother and I are not torn-apart siblings missing each other over distance, but still the argumentative but playfully teasing Dynamic Duo. Father gets news of a house in Havana whose ownership he never surrendered. We take a trip to our island country as a family to see this new, old childhood home of mine. And when we arrive, it’s as if we never left. Like much of my country, our home is frozen in time; the walls are decorated with framed photographs my four year old self, of my brother’s 1st birthday party, and Mom and Dad’s wedding. The bedroom my brother and I shared is bursting at the seams with 90’s memorabilia, toys, children’s clothes, and memories. Even the layer of dust that covers everything and the dying guava tree in the backyard feel like old friends. The more of this long-forgotten home I explore, the younger I become, until I'm four years old again and I come across an abandoned triplet of kittens taking refuge in my white oak wardrobe. I am filled with the joy of a child – pure, harmless, incorruptible – and my dream ends with my 6 year old brother and I playing with the kittens.
I've never woken up feeling more heartbroken. Every fiber of my being longed for those days, those simpler days when being happy meant something more. When love was alive and prosperous, when loneliness was a foreign concept, and my brother and I were free to explore and bicker as siblings do, never thinking we'd someday be separated by consequence and 1,000 miles of empty space. And, somehow, I long for the unbridled innocence and warm fuzziness of a kitten, or three, on my lap.
Dreams dissect your true self, exposing your very essence, and projects it in the most hard-hitting ways. Pay attention to the ones that rip you open and leave you crying in a corner; you could be trying to tell yourself something.