Snowy Day

Dreams

I am awake.

****

Almost instantly my mind turns on. My eyes shoot open. It takes me a moment to notice the high pitch whine emanating from my night stand. As my senses manage to recollect themselves, I reach over and gently hit the snooze button, flicking the alarm switch to the off position in one deft motion. I stare blinking (if that's at all possible) at the clock momentarily. I roll over and fling off the blankets and sheets, swing my legs around, and firmly plant my feet on the carpet. I close my eyes as I lift my body from the bed.

****

I open my eyes. I'm in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of orange juice. I sit down, and begin to slowly nibble my cheerios.

****

Seconds later I slam down my glass of milk, empty, onto the table. Remnants of an egg shell remain on my plate, the last of its keep washed down with my sweet apple juice. I glance over at the clock on the microwave. The time reads 7:30. My eyes shoot up from the watch on my arm; I've missed my bus to school.

****

I rush up stairs again, and start the shower running. I'll have to be quick this morning. I head into my room to find my books lying open on my desk. A half unwritten paper sits surrounded by half complete math problems. Shoot! I knew I forgot to do... everything... the night before. No matter though, I need to get in the shower before...

****

... honk... honk... honk.... The sound of car horns comes from all around. Don't the drivers realize that honking at the cars in front isn't going to help them go any faster or farther? My mind fusses over the sheer incompetent impatience of my fellow road users, as well as the fact that I too am stuck in traffic and late for school. At least I no longer have to take that stupid bus.

****

I burst through the doors of my class and am met by silence... silence and the soft, frantic scribbling of pens and pencils. The tops of eight dozen heads stare down at me, the faces of my classmates bowed in prayer... but not prayer (though I'm sure some of them may have been)...

****

... &#^*# ()#*() *@#&*^... I utter a few curse words under my breath. How could I have forgotten I had a midterm today. I sit down and the professor hands me a test paper. I reach into my backpack and pull out a pencil. It has no lead. So I pull out a pen. It has no ink. I borrow half a dull pencil from my neighbor and begin writing. Hurriedly, I write down my answers-- answers to question I've never seen before, about topics I've never studied, for a class I've never been in.

****

I find myself staring at a blank page. How am I supposed to write a 4 page essay on a book I've never even heard of?

****

At least when this is over I'll get to go the zoo, if my brother ever gets out of the shower that is. He's been in there for hours now.

****

I really hope we don't miss our flight.

****

Two wide, thin, slivers of light pierce through either side of my venetian blinds, slicing through the darkness, casting dim shadows across the walls of my room.

****

It is Saturday morning, and yes, I really am awake.

Such are my dreams always. They are nightmares really. And for some reason it always makes me feel depressed. Why must I always dream of normal life gone awry? Is my imagination dead? Am I so consumed by this mundane day to day life of mine that the most frightening thing my mind can develop is a slightly confusing, non sequitur version of a really shitty day in said mundane life?

Am I the only one? Did Tolkien dream of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit, or merely of forgetting where he left those pages Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit? Does Crichton dream of his Lost World or of simply being lost in this world (or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for that matter)? Was it Samuel L. Clemens of Mark Twain who dreamt while he slept?

Where are the fantastic monsters, or physics altering events of my childhood dreams? Those wild, strange, almost indescribable.... I can't even bring my brain in its wakeful and alert state to describe what came so naturally as a child.

Knowledge and useless facts have heaved asunder the roots of my creativity. My imagination lies dead, in its place stand reason, logic and cynicism, useful yet depressing tools of adulthood.

Prisons

Recently I've come to wonder at our freedom. We've been granted an immense amount of it. We can go where we like. We can say what we like. We can even be whoever we choose. Yet, we often choose to waive such freedoms.

I could live anywhere, yet for some reason I choose to stay within the boundaries of my house, venturing out only to ascertain certain things crucial to my survival, only to subsequently retreat back to the safety of my abode.

I could say things that I feel passionate about, or speak my mind about anything I should like to. Yet I don't for fear of what others may think or that they may disagree. The same applies to who I choose to be, or more precisely, who I choose to present myself as being.

I find we often create our own prisons in which we can safely reside. Within the walls of our cell we cram everything that we are, keeping it safe behind locked bars away from the rest of the world. This can be rather stifling, trapped as we are along with all these thoughts, feelings, opinions, emotions and character traits.

There is of course some overlap. Certain times where our own thoughts and ideas match those of others. And so we feel comfortable inviting such people into that part of our cell to share with them things that we know they will approve of. But we never choose to allow them to venture beyond, to let them see things about us they may not wholly like, or let them truly see and understand who we are. Likewise, when invited into other's cells, we fear too venture to far beyond. We fear we may come across things that negatively impact our perceptions of them, or that we may find things that challenge our own ideas and ways of thinking or living.

God has given us one of the greatest gifts of all. The freedom to express ourselves, even if such expression is contrary to what He wants of us. But we often choose to lock ourselves away, attempting to hide our faults from others and even from Him, though the latter is a rather fruitless pursuit. And so we never allow Him or others the chance to help us grow or better ourselves. Instead we are content to remain safely within our own little prisons, lonely and bored, never truly sharing in fellowship with the Lord or our fellow man (or woman for those types who aren't satisfied by the use of man as a general reference to all people).