Week #11: Dream Interpretation

Been a stretch of nightly dreams right in through here. I can tell they're not the sugar-plum fairy ones, either. Waking in the middle of the night covered in sweat and leaking adrenaline is a sure sign that something isn't working in the sleeping world. But nightmares are part and parcel of my life, have been since before a time I can remember, so this is just kind of an unusually bad stretch. I ran out of places to drop stuff in real life, so it's just leaking out through another badly-welded seam, that's all. No biggie.

Wouldn't have even mentioned it, except the one from last night -- I remember it. Me remembering dreams is unusual enough to note.

I'm a kid, probably about 12. I'm living in a dark swamp, in a tar-paper shack in a waist-deep grassy area on the evil, misty edge of a stagnant pond.  I'm alone. I quite like it. No one bothers me there. There are lots of dangerous animals, but I don't care, I can handle them. You just have to watch your step, have an escape route, keep your head out of your ass, all that routine survival stuff, and it's fine.

"Damn, you see that?" the man asks. I'm not surprised to see Morgan Freeman pointing into the grass. I see the snake, a big fucker, its head as large as my two hands held out flat together, sliding through the grass, an enormous python, headed for the shack. Dangerous but I can handle it.

The front end disappears into the undergrowth, the scaled body a long, sinuous diamond-pattern barrel sliding along behind. I have to catch it before it disappears completely into the grass where it will become an invisible threat. I run up to the sliding body and reach down to grab it, and my guts freeze when I see that it has a head on the other end, too, and it's rearing up in preparation to strike and wrap me in suffocation. Its tongue flickers out toward me, and I realize it's not a two-headed snake after all -- it's two separate snakes, unheard of in these parts. I leap back and fall, scrambling, terror filling my throat. Morgan Freeman grabs my shirt and pulls me to my feet. "Damn, son, that was close," he says. Then he looks around. "I think we're fucked," he says. And I see the third snake. And the fourth. And the grass is rippling and alive with them, we are surrounded and I can feel the horror creeping up my spine, and Morgan stands there frozen as a statue, terrified....and I wake. (This are just the high points of about 1/2 hour of dreaming.)

So, then, my question -- was it out of line to tweet Morgan Freeman's account, asking him just what the fuck good he is anyway?