Highly excited about this dreaming experience.
Regular readers (thank you!) probably have noticed howl much I dig using [howl] in my writing. I say it in my daily life as well. I bellow it, in silence, at night. (You have to be quiet it the flat where I stay, see.)
I have lucid dreamed since being a young child. I realize I am dreaming quite quickly in the dream state.
Sometimes this realization empowers me to change the dream consciously. Sometimes, I realize I am dreaming but do not realize I may be able to alter the dream state. (But, howl. Why change a new experience for what you assume would be better? The idea does not occur unless I feel real suffering.)
Many times, dreams feel like another plane of reality upon which I have landed, where, the best I can do, upon realizing I am dreaming, is to choose to try to wake myself up.
I am overly familiar with the sensation of sleep paralysis. Of becoming mentally conscious before being able to move my body. It is a weird feeling, but I have never felt the terror others describe when experiencing the sensation. No aliens. No demons. Just a simple inconvenience.
“Oh, howl. I gotta sit here and think, ‘wiggle your big toe. wiggle your big toe,’ ” for what seems like an eternity.
Eventually, my big toe actually wiggles.
Enough context.
Here is the dream.
⊙
I stand at the top of several flights of stairs.
Wooden floors.
An old, antebellum-style home.
Southern gothic.
Crown molding with runners.
There are no lights and
A strike of lightning flashes. I see a very, strangely, white child appear on a bench, below. Situated upon the first landing, one flight of stairs, below.
Right before the stairs cut around to the next segment of their spiral.
He looks up, directly at me.
His eyes go wide.
Yawning like mouths.
Too wide.
I do not want to be here. It hurts more than it needs to.
Instead of thinking: wiggle your big toe,
I say, softly,: howl.
I know that I am dreaming. I cannot change the dream.
I want to wake up.
I start bellowing out:
HOOOOOWL.
Lightning strikes again. It illuminates the same bench.
Now, there are ten more children, with yawning eyes, where there had previously been only one.
I howl myself awake.
Serendipitously, “howl” took over and took care of me.
WrittenCasey 