Untitled
Posted by Heather Kelleher
I had this weird dream the other night in which I was out to dinner at a restaurant and instead of a plate of food, I was brought a plate of long, brown hair. Think of how the accumulated hair from the tub drain looks after it dries, on a larger scale of course, and you’ll have some idea of the kind of horror I was presented with. This vicious dream was so disturbing that I awoke with a start at the sound of my own, very real choking just as I was trying to swallow a fork full of the entangled, damp hair.
I immediately sat up and took gulps from my glass of water that I knew probably had lint floating in it, which was also troublesome. I have come to fear these tiny specks, and lately I’ve been having to pour new water if I suspect it’s contaminated by some foreign, minute, entity. Tonight, though, I could deal with the pollution because the feeling of strings of hair trapped in my esophagus was a hell of a lot more traumatic.
Since when have I become so paranoid? I wonder. I have always had trouble sleeping, but I was able to push all feelings of anxiety away, during my waking hours at least. But now, moments of doubt, dread and the acute reality of my own mortality seep into my conscious thoughts. I’m not entirely sure how to combat this development in my psyche, or whether I should even try.
I stood and shuffled out to the living room and attempted to watch the activities of the night from the window. A host of bugs swarmed within the pinkish hued halo provided by the streetlight, and I was even able to make out some that perished mid-flight, the end of a comparatively short lived life. Besides the bugs, there really wasn’t much else going on and so my thoughts quickly turned inward again, and I realized with annoyance that I was attempting to swallow down a tickle in the dark depths and caverns of my mouth. Damn it, of all the things to dream about…I couldn’t shake that perpetual hair in throat feeling, and I knew it was forever marked in my synapses. Indeed, I have come to reflect on this bizarre, twisted dream at least a dozen times since it first debuted, concluding that I am not normal and these are certainly not normal thoughts.
I looked down at my water and decided to get a new glass with fresh water, and lots of ice because the ice helps to make the water seem cleaner. Unfortunately, I have to admit, I have lately grown suspicious of the ice and feel that it too must contain such remnants of living as dust or even microscopic flakes of skin or hair. I ponder when this possibility will begin to really wear on me, and how much more my dark, slightly delusional worries will consume. If next time you see me, I am wearing powdered latex gloves with a white painter’s mask, you’ll understand. In the meantime, I will continue to try to relegate my fears to the surreal world of dreams, in an attempt to force back the inevitability of my own weakness.
I had this weird dream the other night in which I was out to dinner at a restaurant and instead of a plate of food, I was brought a plate of long, brown hair. Think of how the accumulated hair from the tub drain looks after it dries, on a larger scale of course, and you’ll have some idea of the kind of horror I was presented with. This vicious dream was so disturbing that I awoke with a start at the sound of my own, very real choking just as I was trying to swallow a fork full of the entangled, damp hair.
I immediately sat up and took gulps from my glass of water that I knew probably had lint floating in it, which was also troublesome. I have come to fear these tiny specks, and lately I’ve been having to pour new water if I suspect it’s contaminated by some foreign, minute, entity. Tonight, though, I could deal with the pollution because the feeling of strings of hair trapped in my esophagus was a hell of a lot more traumatic.
Since when have I become so paranoid? I wonder. I have always had trouble sleeping, but I was able to push all feelings of anxiety away, during my waking hours at least. But now, moments of doubt, dread and the acute reality of my own mortality seep into my conscious thoughts. I’m not entirely sure how to combat this development in my psyche, or whether I should even try.
I stood and shuffled out to the living room and attempted to watch the activities of the night from the window. A host of bugs swarmed within the pinkish hued halo provided by the streetlight, and I was even able to make out some that perished mid-flight, the end of a comparatively short lived life. Besides the bugs, there really wasn’t much else going on and so my thoughts quickly turned inward again, and I realized with annoyance that I was attempting to swallow down a tickle in the dark depths and caverns of my mouth. Damn it, of all the things to dream about…I couldn’t shake that perpetual hair in throat feeling, and I knew it was forever marked in my synapses. Indeed, I have come to reflect on this bizarre, twisted dream at least a dozen times since it first debuted, concluding that I am not normal and these are certainly not normal thoughts.
I looked down at my water and decided to get a new glass with fresh water, and lots of ice because the ice helps to make the water seem cleaner. Unfortunately, I have to admit, I have lately grown suspicious of the ice and feel that it too must contain such remnants of living as dust or even microscopic flakes of skin or hair. I ponder when this possibility will begin to really wear on me, and how much more my dark, slightly delusional worries will consume. If next time you see me, I am wearing powdered latex gloves with a white painter’s mask, you’ll understand. In the meantime, I will continue to try to relegate my fears to the surreal world of dreams, in an attempt to force back the inevitability of my own weakness.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Monday, April 10, 2006.
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8:27 PM
very good read, thanks