This is the part I always wake up. A dream interrupted.
I sit up in bed, my heart racing and my face drenched with tears. Her deep humiliation is a familiar pit in my stomach. It never was like this before. I never felt this way, and now I always do.
Whenever I have this dream, I feel all of her emotions. As if I am her and she is me. I should tell Mom. She knows me better than anyone, and she wouldn’t judge me for my unconscious mind. She would be accepting and helpful in figuring out what it all means. I’ll tell her tomorrow.
The longer I sketch, the further I lose myself in the dream. The sound of the charcoal scraping the paper fades to the rhythm of the song. My breath catches, holding it while I perfect his stance.
I work on the scale of his broad shoulders in relation to her tiny frame. It’s the fear carved into her face that captivates me. The fright she feels makes the most significant impact on my sketch. Her face is frozen with the realization of who he is and what he is. I could draw it with my eyes closed as it is deeply etched into my memory.
Jeez, I can’t escape it at night.
Why do I torture myself to sketch it out in the light of day and experience it again?
I pray this works. I pray the frames of the dream flow through the charcoal onto the pages, where they will remain. Forever memorialized and permanently abolished from both my conscious and subconscious minds.
With each new page, I abandon perfecting my strokes to hastily get it out of me. I surrender all attachment to the finished product. I don’t care if the frames are sloppy or masterpieces. I just want them eradicated from my life. If I can get them all out, evicted right here on paper, they will remain one dimensional and will no longer occupying space in my mind.
They would be trapped in this vault of a room, to be forgotten by their original owner until someone else comes along and determines them to be worthy or valuable or of some consequence.
Yes, I must continue.
I must feel everything she felt to adequately capture every minute detail. I want nothing left behind in my memory. I want it forever vanquished.
I continue sketching into the wee hours of the morning, forcing my aching hand to obey my brain’s unrelenting demand. For once it is done, once the entire dream is out on paper, I can rest my weary head. And be assured it is permanently rebuked.
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