Demon Clown Baby

Usually people associate a good dream with one that is about pleasant and wonderful things, and nightmares with unpleasant or scary things.

For example, I had a terrible night a few days ago; I dreamt that the computer at the church I attend had been hacked, and that everyone thought I did it. Only my wife and one or two friends believed me, everyone else thought I was guilty. And I wasn’t. I mean, I’m one of the admins for that machine, why would I be hacking it anyway? The cops were there, what a mess.

Is that a nightmare? On the contrary, when I woke up enough to realize I was dreaming, I was very happy. I was so relieved it wasn’t real. Whenever I dream about getting limbs chopped off or attacked by the aliens from Aliens, I am very happy to wake up and find it isn’t real.

What I detest are the dreams that are wonderful. During my Lonely Years, I occasionally dreamed of a special someone, and it seemed so real, and I was so happy, that when I woke up and realized that my life would never be that good, I wanted to cry or slide a sharp metal object between my ribs.

These days I’m fortunate to have a special someone, but you know what? It’s still true that life will never be as good as that dream. Real life has pain, and work, and responsibility, and rewards, yes, and I’m not actually sure I would trade it for the unadulterated joy of the dream; but real life is not as happy as that dream.

These days I tend to dream that my mother is still alive. Or my grandmother. Or a beloved pet has come home (as if they were just gone instead of having died). And it is so wonderful.

And then I wake up, and I remember that they are dead, and they always will be. (Yes, some people I will meet again in heaven, but some I dearly loved that I know will not go there. In any case, it’s scant comfort now, so hush.)

Those are what I call nightmares.

Dreaming of being attacked by zombies? Bring it on.