I know the following story makes no sense but I rarely get a chance to sit down and write out my dreams before they are gone. I figured since this one had been so vivid I would take the opportunity to record it. Then again, maybe I am wasting your time and mine for posting this. I don't know. I warn you there is no beginning or end nor any moral. It is just a strange fragment of a much larger, and now forgotten dream.
I want to tell you about this dream I had. There is no reason to tell it other than it rather strange. It's fading even as I write this so I have to be quick. But, in my dream I was in love and I was suppose to meet this girl. I guess there was some swim party for kids she was attending. I don't remember much about the party but I do recall the dead girl.
My new girlfriend and some other woman were discussing something, standing around, the only way I can describe it is a round brick planter, big enough for a medium size tree. On top of this was a make shift table made of ply wood. Some one removed the table and in the planter was water, dirty water or bloody water, I can't recall, and the head of a 4 year old girl. No. Not the head but the whole body, yet I couldn't see through the water and all I could make out was the head. The mourning and shock of the tragic loss of this girl, who obviously died in a swimming accident during the pool party, was gone from those at the party.
My girlfriend told me to meet her in the morning. If I would ever prove myself to her I had to learn to be on time. 8 something in the morning. Was it 830? I thought she said '830 but be there at 820'. But where? I couldn't remember. I think she was responsible for the burial of this girl. She didn't say that directly but I got the gist.
Then I was at this round table made of cheap buffet tables, the kind with foldable legs I remember from a private school I went to as a child. The tables were covered in a equally cheap table cloth and on that were various party things. Used party things and plates of half eaten food. And crowding around this table were men, strange looking men who were all arguing and fighting about this and that. The only thing I remember said was two men were having a heated discussion over whether murder was wrong. One said it was while the other disagreed.
I said to them, over the loud, thick garble of a dozen other conversations, "It's not wrong to murder someone who hits you." They both seemed to agree with me and someone gave me a high five. I was walking back to my seat after that. Some strange fellow stopped me and said that I had a really loud voice that carried well over all the noise in the room. As I walked away from him I said, "I'm a singer," as if that explained everything.
I know there was more to the dream but I have forgotten the rest now. I often wonder if I dream of the greatest things in the dark of the night and they are lost to me in the morning, never to be fully realized. It's like someone getting you real drunk and then telling you a really important secret you won't remember the next day.
I try to grasp this gems and horrors of dreams but my memory is fading. The morning comes and the dreams leave.