The
other night I had a violent dream, of violence done to another and
witnessing it, of being upset, though not shaking with it, and
crying, for real. The wet eyes surprised me upon waking; I'd thought
they were just a dream-effect and hadn't expected a manifested
welling.
It's
not often I have dreams that have the power to move me, ones where
I'm emotionally invested or involved. Usually there's a split of self
which is heavily in favour of passively observing a weaker, projected
self, but on this occasion the ratio of that divide was reversed.
And
what was weird was that this particular dream placed me in a world
I'd hadn't been in for twelve years, set as it was in my second
office job at a time when I was well established there as Customer
Relations Manager. The everyday motions were as I remember: my
assistant and I seated behind our half-moon desk, heads bent over
trade orders to be booked for delivery with goods-in departments.
Yes,
it was that boringly detailed and really, nothing special; what you
would think of as a casual remembrance when a certain task becomes
routine. And when the people around you, the different teams, are
getting on with their day too, as they also were in the dream: their
familiar faces in front of screens concentrating, the atmosphere
hushed but not silent. The kind of comfortableness that arises when a
group of people are used to one another.
Thus
far, a reassuring dream, with a rosy-tint about it. Yes, and it might
have stayed that way, largely uneventful, had a gunman not burst in
and killed a loved-by-all colleague, point-blank, then made his exit.
What he came for achieved in a matter of seconds, like the appearance
of an extra in a play whose walk-on part is brief but leaves chaos
behind. A catalyst. An instigator. For what? Nobody is ever quite
sure at the time. That comes later, possibly, when it's all played
out. Dreams, however, never get that far.
There
were no words or screams, that I remember, and no body. My colleague
was there, then he wasn't, and the gunman too didn't leave any
impression of himself - what he wore or looked like. I could have
sworn he had on a balaclava, but my mind might have added that detail
because I also doubt I really saw him, looked him square in the eyes
or took in any of his fleeting presence; and these types of scenarios
– real or imagined – would conjure up hoods and masks, and
military-style or hunting apparel. I wouldn't even be able to tell
you what sort of gun it was, just that I saw what looked like one
which I fancied had a long barrel and that a shot was fired. I guess
witnesses (to real crimes) have these moments too, so that
testimonies while not false are true and untrue because the mind
blocks and fills in gaps.
In
this instance, the gunman wasn't the focus of the dream. I don't know
how I knew that, but I did. And my colleague, though much liked and
as inconceivable as it was that he was the victim, wasn't either. It
was the tears and the accusations in the aftermath. As to the right
way, the socially accepted way, to show shock. To demonstrate grief.
The murder victim claimed by his sub-team, giving them the authority
(so they believed) to point fingers at those outside their clique
reacting differently, and so heightening the general emotionality of
the office. An accusative finger was pointed at me for continuing to
go about our business, the business of the company and my role, for
having had it impressed upon me that trade orders were always a
priority. Above a sudden death? Well, yes. That's how it was in the
dream. Failure to meet deliveries resulted in fines. A death wasn't
going to alter that.
I
can't really tell you how I regarded my dutiful response, during or
coming to, other than puzzled. My actions seemed rational at the
time, if a little remote, but to justify it consciously is harder.
Like
most dreams I'll never fully understand it...and it will be replaced,
just as this was the following night when instead of being in an
office I was dancing in a field, on a summer's day, around a white
Cadillac, its bodywork glinting in the sun.
Picture credit: The Obsession, 1928, Rene Magritte (source: WikiArt).
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
