How Dreams Fuel My Writing
For several years, I used my dreams to fuel my writing. Most of the time, I can recall an event or a word that sparked the dreams, but not always.
A few days ago, for an unknown reason, my last thought as I climbed the stairs to bed was that the houses in the street conform to a pattern to help the firefighters. That night, I had a dream where I was locked out of my room and had lost my keys; I had to follow the landlady and ask her to let me in my room, only when I entered, it was not the room I had left several hours ago.
Several dreams in the last month have featured me going for a coastal walk, this is not hard for me to work out where they came from as since I am disabled and unable to walk without my crutches, I miss going for a walk more each day, and I always loved walking along the coast and feeling the cooling winds.
For a long time, I was unsure if my weird dreams were caused because I used to drink a lot of coffee or a weird mind. My dreams often come to me like an episode of the series Fringe. Because I was concerned about my mental state three years ago, I asked our hospital to give me a brain scan. There was nothing amiss; I just have a weird mind.
On several occasions over the years, I have woken from dreams sure that what I had dreamed was a reality that I could not find in the real world. One time in Germany, I woke sure that someone was coming into my room with the intent to kill me; if I could have reached my Kukri knife, I would have used it. Some dreams leave you as soon as you wake; not all of mine do. Some stay with me for weeks, and others have never left me for years.
I can only speak for myself, but from my point of view, I can say that when I nearly died (twice), my life did not pass before me; all I was interested in was saving myself.
One instance, on a ski-lift, the other incident happened years before when I was about 11. I was walking out to the sea at Swanage in Dorset when suddenly I stepped off the edge of the shallow beach and had to fight to survive as the water rushed over me.
My parents were in sight but unable to help as they could not swim. If I hadn’t been a good swimmer, I would not have survived; my swimming ability is like my running used to be. I am not a sprinter, but I can go on for a long time; that is why I enjoyed cross country running like the character in the movie The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.