Dark Dreams

I have always been fascinated by dreams. Or maybe dreams have been fascinated by me. When I dream, I dream big--it's like the theatre of the mind pulls out all the stops. Granted, I may go for some time just having the run-of-the-mill flotsom & jetsom dreams, the leftover refuse of the day that just jumbles all up and doesn't make much sense. And many times I'm too tired to remember what I've dreamed. But there are times when my dreams would rival any Star Trek or Twilight Zone episode... and there are other times when they go beyond even that and enter the realm of epic myth or biblical apocalypse.

Well, early Monday morning, about 3am, I had a strange one. The details are already escaping me. I wander into a room, all dark metal and lit by a poisonous green light. There are tubes trailing across the floor. There is a long line of large flat screen tvs along one wall, tuned to a dead channel. The white noise is playing in a low hiss. On the floor is a young woman in a dark plastic or rubber suit. She is bald. She is not quite human. In fact she is a cyborg. She has an implant in one eye. The tubes and wires are connected to her. She is weeping out of her one eye. Electricity snaps and fizzes and her limbs twist and contort. She asks me to help her. I reach down and lift her up-- and I can feel the weight of her in my arms as if she is real, she is no mannequin--and I try to set her on her feet, but she cannot control her arms and legs. She keeps twitching. She begs, "Please help me! They're trying to... They're trying to make me..." I look over her shoulder and there are these young men, about 18 or 19 years old, holding these controllers, like video game controllers. I cannot see their faces, for their hair is long and completely covers them to their chins. They push a button on the controls and suddenly she goes rigid, and whatever was human in her is gone. She is all cyborg now. The tubes disconnect. She gains her balance and brushes past me, gracefully stepping up onto a platform, and then into one of the flat screen tvs. As the picture flutters and adjusts, she turns to face me and the picture zooms in to a close up of her face. The red light of the laser from her implant flashes in my eyes. When she speaks, her voice is distorted, like the voice of the borg in Star Trek. She says, "Do you want to play a game?" And I ask, "Is it dangerous?" And she replies, "Oh, yes. I am." Then she raises a blaster weapon and aims for my heart. Suddenly, my son is standing next to me, holding one of the controllers. He says he wants to play. And I say, "Like hell you are," and propell him from the room.


Okay, so all Freudians can pack up and leave the room-- go play with your pencils or something... Jungians move to the front of the class... There is so much material here, I almost don't know where to begin. Almost.

The thing is, that bald borg suspiciously resembles the pathetic pictures of Britney Spears that have been haunting the media pages lately. I try to avoid celebrity gossip like the plague, but I guess I couldn't escape this. So I'm going to take a wild guess and say what all this really means is, Britney isn't really in rehab. She's been turned into a cyborg and is set to destroy the world.

On that note, I'm going to lock my door and go to bed.


Current mood: Sleepy
Current music: tori amos here in my head