Six Feet Under Dreams

Dear Readers,

After a long, exhausting day, I decided to give my weary body some well-deserved rest. My bones might not be ancient, but they sure feel it sometimes. Every doctor preaches about the importance of rest, but I’ve always joked, “True rest only comes six feet under.” You know what I mean rest only when we’re dead.

The evening was quiet, the kind of quiet that amplified the weight of the day. Instead of lying on the bed, as most people would, I chose my trusted couch. It’s an odd habit of mine, one I can’t explain. Unlike the bed, which feels too permanent for my restless mind, the couch feels like a temporary escape.

The moment I sank into the cushions, sleep came for me like a thief in the night. It wasn’t the gentle drift into a slumber that some are blessed with; it was a plunge a sharp descent into a world that wasn’t my own.

I was gone.

The dream hit me like a storm violent and unrelenting. I found myself in a place that felt like reality twisted. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and the shadows moved as if they were alive. My chest ached, each breath a struggle, as if unseen hands were pressing down on me. Panic clawed at my mind, whispering that this was no ordinary dream.

Then came the sound. A faint, rhythmic thudding, like a heartbeat. It grew louder, more insistent until it became unbearable. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows. I couldn’t make out its face, but its presence was overwhelming a mix of dread and familiarity. It spoke no words, but its silence screamed volumes.

When I woke, it was with a jolt that left me gasping for air. My heart raced like it was trying to escape my chest, and I was drenched in cold sweat. Disoriented, I slid off the couch, collapsing onto the floor. My hands trembled as I tried to gather my thoughts. Was this just a dream? Or something more?

For a while, I just sat there, staring into the distance, trying to make sense of it all. My mind replayed every moment of the dream, each detail etched into my memory like a scar. I’ve heard that dreams can’t hurt us, but tell that to my pounding heart and the ache in my soul.

The past few months had been rough no, brutal. Stress had become my constant companion, lurking in the background of every waking moment. Job instability and family issues had carved deep grooves into my spirit. I’d thought I was handling it, but my dream told a different story.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I turned to the internet in search of answers. Articles and forums were filled with theories: dreams as mere figments of imagination, as reflections of subconscious fears, or as windows into alternate realities. One line stood out to me: “Dreams are not real. They cannot hurt you.” But could that really be true?

When we sleep, we enter a world where the rules of reality bend and break. Our minds weave stories from fragments of memory, emotion, and imagination. Some dreams are nonsensical, others profound. And then there are the ones that leave us shaken to our core, the ones that make us question everything.

That night’s dream wasn’t my first brush with the surreal. I’ve had two other dreams in recent months, both equally haunting. Each felt like a message, though deciphering their meaning was like trying to read smoke. They weren’t just dreams they were confrontations with parts of myself I’d rather ignore.

One dream took me to a house I didn’t recognize but felt I’d known all my life. The walls whispered secrets, and every door led to a room filled with regret. Another dream showed me faces some familiar, others not that stared at me with eyes full of accusation. Both dreams left me feeling hollow and exposed as if they’d peeled back layers of my soul.

As I write this, my daughter’s words echo in my mind. Whenever she’s on the verge of sleep, she says, “Dada, my head is falling.” It’s her innocent way of describing the pull of slumber. I can’t help but smile at her simplicity, a stark contrast to the chaos of my own dreams.

Dreams, I’ve come to realize, are deeply personal. They don’t give us answers, but they do hold up a mirror to our inner selves. They force us to confront fears we’d rather bury and truths we’d rather not see.

I don’t know what my dreams mean, and perhaps I never will. But one thing is clear: they’ve changed me. They’ve made me question, reflect, and, in their own strange way, grow.

So, as I prepare to take another nap, I wonder where will my dreams take me next. Will they haunt me, heal me, or simply leave me wondering?

Perhaps the beauty of dreams lies in their mystery. After all, some questions are better left unanswered.

Jacob M