My dreams have set themselves on autopilot this week and they’re doing what I’ve always known to be their mission – burning excess and processing information that I need to consume, but may have difficulty prying from my subconscious and digesting during the daylight.
To the former – every night since my father’s memorial I have dreamed of him and the event. Like a movie reel, events play on the back of my eyelids until I find myself waking up and reciting his entire eulogy as a final punctuation before getting out of bed. I picture faces and conversations and the opulent event put in place to honor my dad. Several times an hour I am grateful that we memorialized it all with a video. Then I wonder if I will ever watch it, or if it will simply forever play inside my head. Burning excess forever.
To the latter – I won’t be dissecting the lesson plan my brain has prepared for me right now, fraudulent as that may make me feel as a writer. But this battle is to be played out inside my head; it’s an exclusive war between me and the ghosts my father vacated inside of me. I’ve learned not to use words until the story has an authentic ending, should that time ever come.
It’s almost 6am. In two hours I will leave for Las Vegas. I’ve got a lot to think about. I superimpose elements from three generations – my father’s eulogy, several broken pieces of myself and the light, airy breathing of a daughter on my left and another on my right. I press them into a lesson plan of my own. In my own wiry way, I can answer my subconscious.
Today I know there really isn’t anything special about me.