The dreams come to me sometimes,
when times are either tough
or in a sense of disarray, and still,
the dreams are always the same
and all of them so different, but each time,
I find myself back in my old world,
like, back when I was young,
or like, as in back before there was a “before,”
or even before then, like, say,
back when I was young enough to explore or pretend,
or to walk in an empty field,
which was a vacant lot across from my home,
or also known
as the playground of my youth—the suburban world,
my town, my little spot,
my house and home and my room,
which was the one upstairs, as in up the stairs
and to the left.
I have dreams of my old home
only, no one is ever home when I am there.
No, I suppose everyone is gone
or often enough, my dream takes place
in the summertime, midday,
and I am walking from room to room,
looking for my Mother and Father
and wondering where my Brother is.
But no one is home
I have these dreams when I am lost
or stuck
or when I find myself in an otherwise
social snag, let’s say, or when my emotions
are running in too many different directions.
Maybe the symbol behind this
is that I am seeking to go full-circle,
that I am searching to find where I belong,
and while I seem out of place,
perhaps this is why I dream of my old childhood home.
Perhaps this is dreamt with hopes
that I can find myself at my old dining room table
and maybe my Mother can deliver a plate of food
and put this down in front of me,
lovingly, like only a Mother could do.
and then Mom would touch my shoulder,
as if to say, “It’s okay, son.”
“Here, eat this.”
This will make you feel better . . .
I often dream about my old elementary school
and the hallway that I had to walk down,
each day, when I was in the Learning Center.
I dream about my 5th grade classroom too,
and how it’s empty,
and yes springtime has come,
like the way school would feel,
just before June, and before summer recess
was about to take place.
I am moving slowly at first
and in the midst of the oddity or the eeriness
that stands out,
because of the way the room is just emptied
with papers on the wall, all moving from the breeze,
which had been allowed in by the cracked open windows
that tilt inward, halfway
and although the classroom is empty,
there are papers and books that are left on the desk;
as if the entire world went through
some kind of split-second devastation
or an apocalypse and I, as in me,
I am the last one standing
because the rest of the world is gone
or vaporized, as if to be disappeared,
and the life and all the people
were gone and left
without the tragic existence of bodily proof.
I am a passenger in dreams like this
because I am not walking.
I am only moving, hovering or flowing,
as if to be on some kind of conveyor belt
and each time I dream this,
I know the dream is about to end
because my hovering body begins to move faster.
I can feel the anxiety begin to pick up in my dreams
and next, I am about to cross through a lighted threshold
as if to say that there is a doorway,
which are like the double doors
that led us out to the playground
when we were kids.
Something is calling me here.
The light behind the door
is brilliant and white and nearly blinding.
I can hear the sound of children playing on the playground
and although I am not walking, again,
I am moving while motionless, like a passenger,
and when the doors come closer,
the light behind them grows brighter,
and just as I am about to go through,
I find myself wake in my bed, sweating like crazy,
and trying to decipher between the dream I just had
and the reality that none of this was real.
It was all just a dream . . .
I have these dreams when I find myself at an impasse
or when I find myself in a strange state of existence,
like the momentary lull between the tides
or the moments of quiet
which takes place after the waves crash on the sands
and then return out to sea.
I appreciate these dreams.
I really do.
I suppose they come to comfort me
or to let me know, “Don’t worry, Son.
You and I have been here before.
And we’ve been through worse, so get ready.”
Alone or not, we have a life to address.
Good morning, Monday,
I heard you were going to show up early today.
Well, it looks like you made it
So, here I am.
Did you have something else you wanted to say to me?
Yeah . . .
I didn’t think so.
The Written Addiction 