Not really… I dream about dead people.

They come and visit me.  I watch myself have conversations with them in these dreams, I interact with them and every time, I can feel them.  Their presence. Their essence. It’s surreal.

Dreams intrigue me. They’re like a playground for our subconscious.  The subconscious mind has been subjected to such speculation over the years. I know there is a correlation between my dreams and my thoughts, perhaps you share this sentiment. It serves as an out-of-body experience; we think about it, without actively thinking about it.

For the past month I’ve been having dreams of my grandma. My dead grandma. The moment I saw her take her last breath. Her body struggled, her chest rose with much difficulty and that was it.  As she exhaled the remnants of her breath, her spirit exited her body too.

The dreams of her, they keep her alive. Secretly, I don’t want them to stop. As torturous as they may be, it’s another opportunity to be in her presence. Last night … I can’t remember, we were in the basement, more accurately, the doorway to the entrance of the basement suite and the foyer.  Symbolism; neither here nor there. Just like her spirit, which I’ve selfishly kept tied to this world through these dreams and the attachment we formed over 23 years and 2 days, or 3…

Every morning I wake up from a dream of her, I worry it might be the last time I see her.  I worry that I’ll forget her. Her details. Her laugh, her smile, it’s already happening. It torments me, the details I’ll remember. The futile, unnecessary details that plague my mind, details outside of me, those I remember; but the last words of the woman who showered me with unconditional love… that, that I can’t remember.

shame.

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