The Sleep Of The Righteous

I’m fairly sure that my clean living soul, being congruent and open, with goodness pulsing through me like a fresh water spring, is the main reason I don’t dream. Dreams are for disturbed, disjointed people to make peace with their darkest urges in the privacy of their own beds.  All my impulses are pure, so don’t require projection.  The world of dreams is merely a cesspool of navel gazing horror that I’m glad doesn’t involve me.  Let the carnal feast on each other.  I walk with Plato, among the stone sculptures, admiring the higher aspects of consciousness.  We observe the leaves prevaricating, and ponder and posit some deep reflection that, for me, isn’t helping much.
 
Then, out of the blue, I had a dream.
 
Dream #1
 
I’m in some kind of classroom filled with females (of indeterminate ages, but they were attractive).  They are all kneeling, facing the front, and something serious is happening in front of them.  It was as if they were all on prayer mats, bowing to God, and every time they leant forwards their backsides and genitals were exposed to me because whatever they were wearing was too short to cover it all.   They knew this, and it was a joke to them.  They were teasing me, occasionally throwing glances at me over their shoulders at me.  In the dream I am surprised, almost shocked, tittering; scared of being found out.
 
It sounds erotic now but I don’t remember feeling that way in the dream.  It was as if they were sharing their naughtiness with me; and although I remember looking, askance, at their naked behinds, and wondering why nothing was going wrong with this situation, I was distant from it, feeling naïve.
 
My own subconscious is laughing at me.
 
When I told my therapist about this she had a wry smile, maybe thinking Hooray, his subconscious is coming to the rescue.  She was so excited that I’d had a dream, at all; at last she could use her psychotherapy skills on me.
 
I admitted, after a while, that I felt hard done by; that, after all this time of dreamlessness, my subconscious could have granted me some proper dirty dreams first, but no.  And this, in turn, led to the awful insight that maybe this was one of those dreams, but that before I’d gotten the chance to enjoy it some other part of my head decided that I wasn’t allowed, and added a twist.
 
That sucks.
 
CrookedMan CrookedMan
46-50
Dec 9, 2012