I had one of those dreams last night. I dreamt I had murdered someone without realising – I was escaping from the Police; running for my life. I had no recollection of murdering anyone whatsoever.
In the dream, I decided to go home to collect some things before leaving the country. Upon arrival, I discovered we’d been burgled, and the thieves were still there in the house trying on my clothes and pretending to be me.*
Thats when I woke up shouting and screaming in fright, and had to be calmed down and tucked back in.
What a welter of anxiousness.
I haven’t had such an awful dream for ages. The usual one is a driving nightmare, where the car’s brake doesn’t work too well, and I cause all sorts of chaos and have to go to jail, which in the dream I always think is fair enough, as it turns out that the pedal I was pressing was the accelerator.
Anyway, last night’s dream turns out to be quite fitting, as my head is full of thoughts about ‘home’ – what it means, how nice it is to come back to. My children’s story (the one I’m going to try to finish to pitch at the Bologna Book Fair next year) about a bear coming home is gathering pace in my head, suddenly. Like all good things do – great ideas must grow in their own time.
So I’m practicing light/dark pictures,** and considering what home actually means.
In the Summer, visiting my Father in Law’s apartment, I passed through his bedroom quickly, to the bathroom. On his bedside table, a photo of me.
Loving and being loved.
*Good luck with that! It’s not easy being me 🙂
**Not sure the one above is either light enough or dark enough. Hmm.