A dream... or something more?

I woke from the dream drenched in sweat. It’s a massive cliché, I know – perhaps because it’s something that never really happens to people, but somehow sounds cool and scary.

But I’m serious – the bed was drenched. I had rapid-fire flashbacks of my childhood, my bladder control weakened as a result of the indignities piled upon me by my siblings.

That’s s story for another time. The ever-growing autobiography, perhaps.

I didn’t want to lose the images that had erupted in my dreams, so I put off rushing the sheets to the washing machine for later. Instead I made a bee-line for my computer, slamming down the mug of day-old coffee to punch up my flailing synapses.

I needed to be clear. Mentally clear. This was important.

Vivid dreams have never been a frequent occurrence in my life. I’ve heard it said that the creative geniuses throughout history often noted that they couldn’t remember their dreams at all. I’ve always felt this to be a kindred notion.

But the last few nights have proven restless. Like a pustule striving for release, some THING has been pushing against my unconscious mind, leaking out in my nocturnal state. I read the box from the topical ointment my doctor had prescribed, to help quell the remnant traces of irritation from my recent “liaison” (see post “A Writer’s Method”). But the warning label said nothing about inducing feverish dreamstates.

I wrote as quickly as I could. And I couldn’t believe the words that were leaping from my fingertips to the screen. I waited until I had finished – and then breathlessly re-read it all. My dream springing to life in my words – a pale imitation.

But the substance was captured. My first impression was – sacrilege. This is nothing short of sacrilege, of the highest order.

Or.

What if it was… dare I even speak the word –

-- prophecy?

In the first century, a man named John, a lowly exile on a small Greek island, had a vision. His words were a controversy that would play out over many hundreds of years. There were many who did not believe in the “unveiling” he witnessed. There are many who still do not.

Am I somehow connected, over two thousand years, to this other “John”?

Am I creating a fiction? Or am I translating a message?

Too many questions for this hour. I must sleep. I must dream. I must write.

I must RECORD…