At 6:30 this morning I was in the kitchen scribbling a note for the Spouse Thingy: Please feed the kitties. Normally they eat at 9:30, but I had no intention of being awake at 9:30 and every intention of being fast asleep…this would displease Max, causing him to body slam my face repeatedly until I dragged my sorry self out of bed to make use of my nifty opposable thumbs on those cans of Stinky Goodness, so I dragged myself out of bed early and wrote the note.
It was only dragging because the bed was warm and the house was not. It’s not as if I was asleep.
I wasn’t not sleeping through lack of effort…I went to bed at 12:30, but didn’t fall asleep until nearly 2 a.m. At 3:30 I woke from a dream that had me driving a ’67 Mustang at insane speeds, hitting a rise in the road and going airborne, headed straight for an overpass. I jolted awake just before impact, relieved that it was just a dream, and that I had woken up, lest the idea that if one dies violently in a dream they die in their sleep has a bit of truth to it (like, who would really know? But I’d rather not test it out…)
It took another hour to fall back asleep, long enough that I nearly got out of bed to play online for a little while, but almost as soon as that impulse hit me I realized I was this close to nodding off again, so I pulled the blankets around me a bit tighter, and let myself fall.
I woke up at 5:30, so freaking sad I was nearly in tears. I’m not sure if there’s any symbolism here, but I’d been dreaming that the Spouse Thingy and I had split up, but for whatever reasons we were still living in the house together…and he had remarried to someone who had, in a previous lifetime, been my best friend, someone who is still a friend. It was supposedly a marriage of convenience, but when confronted with the reality that it was not, I was on my way out the door, bags in hand, the Boy there to take me to wherever. The Spouse Thingy was there begging me not to go… I woke up before my foot stepped outside the door, but an hour later I was still wrapped in the sheer sadness and grief of a dream, I could make no sense of, so I got up and wrote the note asking him to feed Max and Buddah.
At 7:15ish I heard his key in the front door—Max bounded off the bed in hopes of crunchy treats, simple reaffirming that yep, it was him—and I finally fell back asleep, the sense of grief finally fading away with the drifting back into the next dream.
Luckily, whatever slithered through my brain after that wasn’t disturbing enough to pry me awake again, and Max didn’t try to nap across my face after getting his breakfast.
Still…I’d like to know what the hell those dreams were really about…