Land Of My dreams

Land Of My Dreams

  by

  Tom Morris

  Copyright 2015, Tom Morris

  All places, characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ...........................................

  How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.

  Bram Stoker, Dracula, 1897.

  I dreamed of the city again last night. I dream of it almost every night. The same city, but always slightly different. Eerie and uncanny. Its buildings somehow familiar but yet mysterious and frightening. Drab grey stone and sombre brown woodwork. Tall, gaunt, crowding out the sky, threatening. Sometimes it is daytime, but always overcast, dark and gloomy. Night time is worse, the shadows press close and the dim light from the windows struggles to penetrate the murk. As always I am making my way through winding streets and alleyways, trying to make my way to a destination, sometimes known, sometimes never quite understood, but always with a desperate urgency. Its inhabitants are as mysterious as the city. Usually they are ill-defined, peripheral, at the edge of my vision, but sometimes they accost me, at times threatening, occasionally engaging in often meaningless and bizarre conversations. I wake, agitated and frightened, and lie, staring at the ceiling, my mind in turmoil, details of the dream slowly fading but its general nature seared into my brain.

  Once my sleep was untroubled. My dreams were as mundane as anyone else's. Looking back I am certain that my troubled nights only began after I moved into a new apartment. I had taken the opportunity offered by early retirement and a generous pension payout and selling my previous rather pokey flat in an area rapidly becoming overrun by students purchased an upper floor accommodation in the city centre overlooking the river. I found it most congenial. Shops, cinemas and restaurants were all close at hand together with a museum, library and art gallery. All providing nourishment for both the inner man and the intellect. It marked a complete change in life style. At first I enjoyed life to the full but then my dreams became darker and more ominous and my health began to suffer. I lost my appetite and began to develop a dread of the coming night. In desperation I sought the advice of my doctor who prescribed a mild sedative which did little to ameliorate my problem. When I returned, asking for a stronger prescription he proposed instead that I should undergo therapy. At first the idea that I might be suffering some form of psychosis repelled me but as my life became more and more intolerable I determined to follow his advice.

  Accordingly I attended a session as an outpatient at an annex of the local teaching hospital. The meeting did not go particularly well. The counsellor was a tall thin man with greying hair and a nervous mannerism, rather shabbily dressed in a suit that had seen better days. He listened politely to my problem but seemed somewhat uninterested; feeling perhaps that my complaint was rather more trivial than that of his normal patients. He attempted to establish whether some event had caused me anxiety or had initiated depression but I could offer no adequate explanation. In the end he suggested that I should keep a record of my nightmares so that we could discuss them at our next meeting. Feeling somewhat let down I departed, stopping on my way home to purchase a notebook which I placed beside my bed so that I might write down the details of any dreams while they were still fresh in my mind. It didn't take long for the first entry. There had passed a few days without any great disturbance but then on the third night I experienced a further dream of even more intensity and horror.

  I walk along a shingle beach, stretching between a concrete promenade on one side and a dark sullen ocean on the other. I shiver in a cold easterly wind. Listless waves tug despondently at the beach. Overhead the usual heavy grey sky crushes me like a suffocating blanket. I make my way towards a distant pier, jutting out into the sea like an accusing finger, pointing at black clouds gathering ominously on the far horizon. I find myself stumbling over clumps of vile stinking seaweed, reeking of rot and decay. Cold wet strands slip around my ankles, clutching at my legs. In a frenzy I pull free, scrambling across the shore to the safety of the promenade. I am drawn away towards a large man-made lake on the other side of the promenade. Its water glistens with an evil oily slick and all manner of rubbish floats half submerged on its surface. I become aware of one of the grey faceless shadows that haunt my dreams. It says nothing but I understand that a task has been imposed upon me. It will be duty to clean the lake, to remove all traces of pollution. Unhesitatingly I jump in and begin. At first the water only reaches to around my knees. My feet sink into slimy mud and I stumble over hidden debris; bricks, branches and the like impede my progress. I reach down into the cold inky depths, desperately pulling out the rubbish and piling it at the side of the lake. As I progress the surface rises higher and higher, to my waist, to my chest, almost to my mouth. Desperation overcomes me. I am filled with a nameless dread that I am failing in my allotted task. In my haste I trip over some unknown obstruction and fall, plunging under the surface. Icy water fills my mouth, pouring down my throat, choking me. I am falling, spiralling down and down into an abyssal gloom, dark bottomless depths, smothered by the weight pressing down on me. I struggle in agony, threshing my arms and legs in a vain effort to escape. Screams of despair bubble from my lips. I wake, my limbs entangled in the sweat-soaked sheets, heart pounding, gasping for breath. I collapse back into the bedclothes. I cannot endure much more of this.

  I am becoming more and more depressed. The television news channels and the daily papers are unendingly filled with tales of discord and distress. An aeroplane has crashed, killing all on board. Terrorists have stormed yet another hotel executing all their hostages before committing suicide. Refugees are fleeing the Middle East which is racked with religious warfare. A dispute over territory in Eastern Europe is escalating into what might possibly be a full scale international war. Untold thousands are starving to death in Africa while local warlords fight over worthless territory. At home there is unending bickering between politicians of all parties as to who is to blame for all the poverty and ills of this country while they give every evidence of incompetence and corruption. I long for an end to all this, for a society which embraces kindliness, peace and tranquillity.

  I pay another visit to my psychoanalyst and describe the dream of the beach and drowning in the pool. He shows a little more curiosity and as a part of the therapy asks me to tell him about my childhood. I am overcome by confusion. I cannot remember any details of my early life! I can recall some hazy memories of an early education, of leaving college and taking a job but try as I might there are only tantalising glimpses of what had gone before. How can this be? He is now much more interested in my troubles. We quickly establish that I am not totally amnesiac. I am quite certain as to my name and have a reasonable recollection of my life since taking retirement. He offers re-assurance. Further sessions will no doubt reveal that the memory losses have been brought on by some trauma in the past, perhaps the effect of having given up work. The dreams are an attempt by my unconscious mind to deal with the problem. He tells me it is essential that I continue to record them so that he can attempt to get at the root of the difficulty. I leave, in a more anxious and worried state than when I arrived.

 

  Night. A heavy drenching rain beats down, splashing up from the cobbled road and soaking my legs. I am lost, somewhere on the edge of the city. Around me decrepit buildings, gaunt and menacing press close, their windows blank eyes staring accusingly at me through the gloom. I know only that I have to press on towards an as yet undetermined goal
somewhere ahead. I run through a narrow alleyway between high moss-encrusted stone walls, half climb, half fall over a fence, tearing myself free from clutching brambles and tumble full length into a muddy garden. Stumbling to my feet I make my way up a path to a nearby house and climb a short steep flight of steps. In a panic I hammer on the front door which swings open. Inside I can make out little detail in the darkness. The hallway reeks of mildew and decay. I grope my way forward, passing through an endless progression of rooms and corridors, up stairs and down again, all deserted and derelict. Stained wallpaper and peeling paint. Loose floorboards threaten to trip me and creak alarmingly underfoot. Always I am driven by a nameless purpose until eventually, overcome by terror I burst through a doorway and find myself once again outside in a maze of derelict structures, abandoned factories and tumbled brickwork. Barely visible shapes stare at me with their eyeless blank faces. I run and run, always driven by nameless dread, lungs straining and heart pumping. I wake,