Recurring Dreams and Lost Identities

This cold I have is like an out of town houseguest, so blissfully unaware that I want it to leave but meanwhile, helps itself out to the last serving of pie in the fridge. I hate it and want it to take a permanent vacation.

But even in my phlegm façade, I’m still behind my desk, shuffling obligatory paper and crushing others dreams every time I finish reading something mediocre. It sometimes feels like it should be karmic to say no to the labor of somebody else’s love. Sometimes it feels like one of those clichés about letting it leave if you love it. I’ve got to deal with one of those today.

I had another dream last night about my car and this time house broken into. I’m getting tired of the reoccurring dreams I’ve been having for the past year.
In July and then later in August of 2008, I had my car, and then a friends car I was borrowing, broken into. The first time, they took $4 in nickels and my clicker. The second time, they took a Bluetooth but nothing of mine. Both instances made me fearful every time I go to my car that something bad’s happened but the existential part of me concludes that none of this is meaningful and it just exists and therefore doesn’t matter one bit. My subconscious tells me otherwise.

A few weeks ago, my former intern and fave flirtation Kelsey hit me up online to tell me she had a dream that we were in a car and she was driving out of control and I was terrified but she thought it was funny. We concluded with the help of a dream dictionary that her dream was indicative of her feeling a lack of control, whereas I was a controlled, not controlling figure. As a controlled person, I was to her what a librarian ought to be to a loud patron – I was there to tell her that it wasn’t ok to behave as she was and to calm down.

While we were discussing her dream, I brought up mine and we both looked up our dreams on a dream dictionary. Hers, as above, was explained. Mine was a little different:

To dream that you car has been stolen, indicates that you are being stripped of your identity. This may relate to losing your job, a failed relationship, or some situation which has played a significant role in your identity and who you are as a person.

Now, I have lived through many failed relationships and lost a job once, that I hated but I’m looking at what it is to be myself and recognizing that part of my personality is still dying to get out. Part of the purpose of this waste of internet bandwith known as my blog is to help that part but there is another part of that. I crave creativity. I know that at my current vocation, I will get routine tastes of it but it isn’t the bohemian, anti-authoritarian, anarchistic special little society I have carved away in my head. It just isn’t, it just won’t ever be and that is sort of making part of my brain sad.

So ever week, I dream my fucking car is stolen. Or my house is broken into. Last night my bohemian weird-ass place was moved and then all of these people kept coming and going and all I wanted to do was go through my drawers and sell the excess and build what I wanted to build like some kind of fucked up episode of Clean House.

My spirit isn’t dead, it just feels like it has herpes. Something isn’t right and needs to be corrected and might never be the same again. But I can’t let the artist inside me die a miserable death because it has to be at a certain building at a certain day. I need to nurture the little voice inside and give my mental five-year old some loving.

Thanks for listening to my mental shitting.