I very often remember my dreams for a short time, at least long enough to be able to share the dream I had the night before with whomever might be willing, or even unwilling, to listen. I’m not sure why I feel the need to force others to visualize my recent dreams, knowing full well that my rudimentary description of whatever fantastical visions sprang forth from my wrinkled brain could never really be relayed to another human being in all its insane glory. But the desire to share the odd visions is too strong to ignore, so I usually find someone in my family who will pretend to listen as I relate the crazy goings-on of my midnight wanderings.
Memory, on the other hand, is something I have difficulty holding onto for more than a nanosecond. I utilize all sorts of memory-enhancing devices, from the old-fashioned notepad to the latest web-connected gizmos, hoping that I remember at least the most important things I must attend to on a daily basis. On most days, I first have to remember where the todo lists and reminder gizmos are. But it’s not just to-do lists that I have a hard time remembering. Over the years, I’ve lost track of so much of my childhood. I mostly remember just fleeting images, some that I’m not sure are real memories. I wonder if they aren’t just planted images from photographs I’ve seen as the years have gone by.
If I can only remember dreams for a short time, and forget important events from my childhood, why then can I still vividly remember a dream I had when I was a young child? I suppose I was 6 or 7 at the time. This is what I can still see:
I stood in my elementary school’s parking lot, which doubled as our playground during recess and lunch breaks. In front of me was a large cavernous, rectangular underground “room” (sans ceiling), with steps leading down to it from the parking lot. This room was our school’s storm shelter or bomb shelter, built to protect us in case of some sort of Communist attack during a hurricane, I suppose. I’m not sure how an open pit provided shelter from either, but there it was.
As I so often did in the waking world, I stood next to the rail, looking down into the pit. In my dream, however, at the bottom of the pit was a large white horse. The horse looked up at me and spoke.
“Help me. I need help to get out of here”, he said.
“How can I help?”, I asked. I couldn’t begin to understand why he couldn’t just walk up the stairs, nor could I conceive of how my tiny self could help such a large animal, but I assumed he knew the answer.
“Bring me a bottle of barbecue sauce,” he demanded, in a rather gruff tone of voice. Confused, I stood there for a moment, and then rushed off only to return a split second later with the bottle of barbecue sauce in hand.
“Thank you,” the white horse said, as I dropped it down into the pit.
And then I woke up.
What is it about that dream that has enabled it to remain in my memory for so long? Does it have some significance so important that it would stand the test of time through memories long gone? Is there some reason my brain clutches it within its synapses and refuses to let go?
Maybe it’s the meaning of life. I don’t know. But I do know that if a white horse is stuck in a bomb shelter, I’ll be sure to bring it a bottle of barbecue sauce.
- Follow Akesana on Twitter to stay connected.
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
Loved this! At first, I was nodding my head, thinking, “Wow, I’m the same way too!” I remember my dreams and re-dream the same ones over and over again. Same themes mostly. Several of the same places. But if you ask anyone here at home, I’m as wifty as they come. Can’t remember why I even got into the car sometimes!
And then your horse dream cracked me up. Maybe Dancing Thunder has some ideas on that…like what the heck the horse and BBQ sauce mean.