I can't control my dreams. They are whatever they want to be. I know there is a slew of theories that surround dreams and I haven't read a damn thing about them. The only thing I've ever heard that seems to hold true to me is that they are manifestation of your subconscious hopes and fears and a manipulated continuation of your waking life (even though isn't that life, afterall?)

I remember being extremely depressed as a child and looking forward to my dreams, looking forward to these newly created friends I would be surrounded by once my head hit my pillow. They were a necessity in order to escape the reality of my parents arguments and financial poverty. And so when not dreaming I strived to continue creating this fantasy world in my waking life. I was known in grade school as the girl who always had her nose in a book. In early elementary school my morning routine was to go outside and sing to birds, pretending like I was a character in any fairytale, pretending like whatever creatures stirred around understood my song. My dad then swiftly had me tested for a list of mental illnesses because he believed their was obviously something abnormal about this child.

Years later I continued having amazingly colorful dreams, especially in the moment right before actual sleep took. Beautiful images would fill my head and I would wake up in a creative panic, feeling like I was unable to write every detail down fast enough, feeling as if I took a breath then an eraser would wipe out these creative inspirations given to me by my subconscious. This was the time in my life when I lived for art. I felt fueled by creating, creating anything. Whatever medium it manifested through, art was like breath.

Fast forward to a couple years and my dreams completely ceased. For almost 2 years I could not remember one dream. I thought it had to do with traveling. Sleeping in unfriendly fields and abandoned houses. Afterall, the porch of a grainer did not exactly bring on deep sleep.

Looking back now its interesting that the darkest times in my life held no dreams. Traveling began as an urge to explore and ended as a means to escape. I detested stability yet yearned for something that resembled it at the same time.  I created nothing for over two years. I felt dried up. Every intricate part of me that made me unique was traded in for a forty and a dirty sleeping bag. Funny how there were no dreams.

And now, nightly, my dreams are like uncontrolled fireworks. Some nights I wake up gasping for air so terrified of the nightmare that I was just engulfed in, some nights I wake up laughing and some mornings I wake up so inspired by what had just taken place that I immediately begin painting. There is no on or off switch and no filter. I have dreams filled with tears and my babies father and his new girlfriend. I have dreams where I am surfing while my daughter watches me giggling with excitement and pride.  I have dreams where my friends have opened art galleries and restaurants and I look on with admiration and inspiration. I even had a dream I gave birth to a 70 year old man. I no longer have to live for my dreams or run away from them. There are ones I don't enjoy and ones I would rather not live without. They leave me grateful and inspired and with a sense of knowing that whatever spark had died within me is now alive. I'm awake again, finally, you can turn back.