Storm and Tempest

A storm raged outside my window, the tempest roared within my subconscious.

I am the storm and my dream companion is the tempest.

Within my dreaming is that recurrent storm tossed nightmare again.

I have always wondered why Charles Dickens titled one of my favorite books, "A Christmas Carol". I mean, no was was singing it back then. Yet in reading the words, it does play out like the lyrics to a great song.

....

Now my dream has shifted, much like our Scrooge's dream ebb and flow as the ghosts shift his dreams to serve their purpose.

I am caught in the disconcerting dream I am having of my older self transporting me back to my younger self.

This moment in time, I am seventeen years old, and should be peacefully dreaming of silly boys, the scary yet fascinating world awaiting me and if I would ever smoke, "potación de guaya," which translates to "pot'.

Suddenly I was struck by the strangest sensation of being watched intently. Rolling over, I squinted my eyes in the dim light of the moon permeating the thin folds of my window curtain.

I was still sleeping, of that I was sure, for I was paralyzed with fear and could not move.

"Don't be afraid, I mean you no harm".

"Wh...who are you". My disembodied voice quivered".

"Why dear, I am you...from many years distant of this moment".

"Are you a ghost then". I shrunk deeper into the folds of my blanket.

"Oh, no", the cloaked figure answered, laughing, a chilling musical quality to her voice, for the vision was definitely a woman.

"I am as alive as you are, though we are both connected in this dream state".

"What do you want from me, why are you here". My quivering voice was barely audible.

"I am here to help you steer your life in a different direction from the one I have lived".

As she spoke, we both rose from the bed and floated to a moment in time that I turned eighteen, with no idea of what to do with my young life.

Dickens would have been proud...I remember thinking.

We both turned our heads as the memories of a tumultuous, yet younger life flashed by quickly, the hardships of my parents, their sacrifices, the struggles, unfulfilled childish yearnings, disappointments and unmet expectations of growing pains were amplified anew.

"Remember them", older self proclaimed, as if I wanted to, I would rather forget, it hurts too much.

We then faced the other direction, eighteen and beyond. She showed me her life, spent settling for the things which she had to do to survive, she was miserable. Yet, she had struggled hard to become the person which she yearned to actually be. The compromises stood stark and bare as her younger soul ached for completeness.

The Dickens-like dream fast-forwarded to the ideal of the life which she had planned, one which would have made her happy.

She studied the Arts, Literature, and the music of life...wrote those books of poetry and even a few novels...opened that Book Store despite the fact that people had outgrown the love of books...and change with the times as technology altered changes. She traveled to exotic places where she gained experience to create, find herself fully, and become her best self, for in self discovery is to be found the joy of nurturing great relationships.

"Find yourself, before you waste more time making a living, instead of actually living".

I was left alone to awaken and contemplate my life, to plan for a future in which I could find peace and happiness..

.....

This is Belle's prompt.