The Morning I Awoke Inside a Stranger's Head

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

…imagine that you have woken up in someone else’s life and write about their morning, as if it were yours, observed from inside their head, as if you were them.

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Beth Kempton

prompt

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Can anything on this earth be more reliable than the certainty of tromping around each day inside one’s own mind? Notice, I didn’t say, “tromping around each day AND night” - because the nighttime dream world is a portal to somewhere else, a mortal’s glimpse afforded us by the Divine into the Divine, and it’s not always a “Jesus loves the little children” sort of place. It’s an Abraxian* world where both gods and demons reign, where Morpheus* has played his games with all who dream since the beginning of time.

Dreams are much like Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone, but even there, Mr. Serling was constrained by requirements to make some sort of sense, ask logical questions about illogical happenings, even to adhere to a consistency in storyline. But dreamers are under no such constraints; they fulfill their roles in a script written by a maniacal playwright, sometimes as an actor, others as an observer in a customized Theater of the Absurd. Only upon waking outside the dream spell might meaning found, only in retrospect while basking in the reassuring light of morning can one begin to understand the message of a dream.

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In this unfamiliar room I opened eyes not my own, in a face foreign to me, and in a bed not of my making.

Light filters softly through curtains undulating in easy breezes from some faraway clime, and I am surrounded by sounds and scents of someone else’s morning; birds chirp, silverware clinks upon a morning table, crispy bacon sizzles, and bread turns to toast. All this enters my mind through a nose and ears not my own.

My dream portal must have glitched last night! I have been confused with another dreamer and sent back into the wrong head, the wrong consciousness. An uncomfortable thought intrudes - elsewhere a stranger is pilfering through my thoughts, judging and maybe even planting seeds of change - a pretender like me, who upon this morning’s awakening is trying to hold on to a diaphanous sanity that threatens to rip apart.

They say the brain makes up for the fact that the image the lens captures is imprinted upside down upon the retina; the mind takes into account this peculiar rendering and ignores the retina’s deception. So might my mind come to trick itself and convince the real me, that this world I find myself awakened in is correct and normal?! Might this trickster that is complicit with transforming the retina’s false image, this spritely demon that resides somewhere deep within my mind begin to try and make me believe that this me is me, and that the other me (who seems already to be fading!) was only a dream, a fake, an unreliable phantom…

“Mary? Breakfast is ready, come down and eat!”

I have been known to dream in such a way that a dream is found within a dream, within another dream and so on, like Matryoshka dolls. Perhaps this is one of those times and I have not awakened at all but will be surprised momentarily by a little jack-in-the box jolt into another nested dream…this is a possibility, and yet, there is too much detail here, a feel of authenticity.

I order this pajama’d body that is not my own to stand up, refusing to study it too closely and hoping that whatever interloper might be posing in my body will do the same.

I call my SWAT Team and instruct them to explore the crevices of this mind…and they report…well, shadowy little tableaus, strange etchings, phantom odors, sticky and uncomfortable feelings, all of which have a discomfiting familiarity.

“Mary!! I will not tell you again. Come down and eat before everything is cold and ruined.”

Some auto-response causes me to reply (OMG, this voice is squeaky and sounds like Betty Boop!), “Okay! Coming!”

The exploration of the nooks and crannies of this mind that is not my mind takes precedence over curiosity about the breakfast that sits before the not-me.

The not-my-mother, once seeing this body seated in its customary spot, drifts away while I, on autopilot, consume the oatmeal, cream and buttered toast. It seems a good breakfast, but I distrust its flavors and cannot allow myself to enjoy the messages from the not-my-taste buds which are likely to be as treacherous as the ubiquitous retinas that foist upside down lies upon us every day.

I chew ashes and swallow fear.

The woman seemed familiar, those ice floe eyes with vacillating shades of silver and blue, the bottle-red hair. She looked at me with a fond forbearance and shook her head as she left the kitchen.

I think about the corridors of my carefully arranged mind and how I miss its small comforts and reassurances. Here, there are no carefully arranged stacks and scrolls lining long inviting corridors. I notice through the kitchen’s screen door, that there is a path winding into the distance through a light-dappled wood. It leads to a shallow creek where I seat myself upon a sandy knoll as my SWAT team recons the area.

This person, this mind…it’s so fluid, so random. Each part of it breathing, moving with a disconcerting awareness and familiarity – I feel trapped in a web of thought and fancy. Ideas and feelings float upon the surface of the creek masquerading as downed leaves and drowning bugs. A few clever water striders race by, bits of wind-blown fluff (even these possessing a disturbing level of sentience) settle in my hair. Busy gnats and softly buzzing bees curiously zip to and fro carried like feathers on bouts of wind.

Peering at me through the foliage in the wood are other curious animals, each a secret thought, a lingering feeling or fond memory captured in forms so cognizant, so…alive.

If I should reach down and pluck just one leaf or swat a single gnat, what would be the consequences for this other mind?

I think of her wandering through my beautiful mahogany-lined corridors with their terrazzo tiles, stacks of leather-bound books and ancient scrolls nestled in dark alcoves. My refuge’s sole Illumination is from a few candles and several towering stained-glass windows, for in this place, sunlight is denied the chance to do its dirty work and fade my ancient tapestries or cast harsh, pitiless rays over my priceless relics.

I am even more worried now.

Might this unknown interloper scuff my floors, light candles I wish to remain unburned, peek into alcoves closed and secured years ago? Will she sit in my overstuffed chair and peruse my ‘volumes of forgotten lore’ or perhaps even desecrate my ritual/prayer room!?

Hoping for some sort of reciprocal consideration, I touched nothing. I try to decipher nothing, as I wonder how long I will be held in the spell of this place. Might I be here only until night follows day and the dream portal opens again? Will Morpheus realize his dire mistake and remedy the situation?

I am bolstered by this hope until I noticed an elaborate hill of ants looking up at me with huge eyes and tiny magnifying glasses! Their little faces are screwed into puzzlement, and I can almost make out their words.

A bee brushes my face, and I feel a slight sting as a skittering water strider scurries up my foot. I quickly brush him away and he lands upon the water sending radiating circles though the fast-moving stream.

Ants begin to scurry across my arms and without thinking, I smash their little castle shoving great mounds of sand into the creek. A few rocks and dense clay follow so that the flow is disrupted and forms a little pool that encroaches into the knoll’s perimeter.

I uproot a fan-like weed and begin swatting at the flying insects. They plummet downward in trails lingering like cascading branches in Monet’s Water Lillies landing silently in the newly created pool. Their Impressionistic color begins to lose vibrancy as they sink more deeply beneath the pool’s now murky surface.

I feel like a petulant god watching from above and am reminded by Nietzsche, “When you stare into the abyss the abyss stares back at you.” Quickly I avert my eyes before some ancient and heartless force finds connection with my soul…goosebumps on my arms come alive and begin to crawl about.

In the distance, my SWAT team waves to get my attention.

They’ve discovered a deep cave barely discernable in the hill surrounding this place. I stand and brush off my arms, hair, pant legs. Eager to get away from the too-curious ants (what if they turn those little magnifying glasses in such a way as to set me on fire!?).

I hurry over to the cave’s entrance.

I am loathe to enter such a small, dark confined space that stands like a gateway to hell. Yet, the cave’s cool and comforting darkness calls to me and I poke my head in just a tiny bit. My eyes struggle to adjust.

A booming voice echoes off dank walls, “Get your silly ass in here right now!” And before I can stop myself, I do.

Darkness seeps into my very pores and a wave of heaviness pushes me to the ground.

My lids droop as I am enveloped in blackness so profound that its edge is like sunlight through a telescope.

Slowly, the air I rest upon becomes more solid and the darkness less claustrophobic until…until…

I am back home!

My shaking, pale hand automatically reaches for a familiar scroll as my butt sinks into my favorite chair. My eyes begin to grow accustomed to this place that I am already well-accustomed to, except...

There’s been a hole knocked into the wall of my ritual/prayer room!

I am enraged that the interloper would dare to have done such a thing!

One of my little internal voices pipes up, “Remember how you plugged up her stream of consciousness when you destroyed the ants’ castle? Remember how you swatted with your weed and brought down some of her highest aspirations?!”

An uninvited light reaches through the new doorway as earthy fragrances and sounds from a fairy forest follow. Betty Boop laughter resonates throughout, and tiny buds of wildflowers tended to by awkward, floating little gnomes encroach.

It is as though I have been gut-punched. The doors of my closed and secure alcoves blow open and expel a blast of air long held within their stagnant, musty interiors.

I sense Morpheus’ presence and realize that he has taken more than a passing interest in this situation. I feel a deep resentment toward him and the Betty Boop.

I cry, “How could she have followed me here?! Why isn’t she back in her own head where she belongs as I am now?”

He laughs.

The Betty laughs.

…they both laugh some more.

Their laughter calms me in some odd way - it is strange that I am not further enraged by it, but instead feel it wash over me like a cleansing shower.

I see dust motes in this space for the first time and am transfixed as they float and settle upon my books and scrolls. A deep melancholy overtakes me as I walk over to the newly formed doorway and look upon the same house, wood, stream and knoll I just left.

There are tears in my eyes - am I crying for the desecration of my library of hopes, my museum of feelings, my dark laboratory of ideas, or am I crying over something else? How strange to cry and know not why…I am slightly amused by this ambiguity.

The only sound now is the sobbing of my voice catching in my throat as it echoes through vast silent chambers.

As I stand at the entrance to this other mind feeling lost and so alone, a sneaky, sticky little hand reaches into mine. Its tentacles pry at my fist and curl between my fingers.

“Don’t cry, it will be alright, Tracy. I didn’t mean to ruin your house.”

I look down into the mirror image of my younger self, my Inner Child with tears in her eyes too. Memories flood back to me.

I once stayed with my Aunty Vi the whole summer of my 8th year. She always called me by my baptismal name, Mary…and lived in the house remembered in my dream.

Morpheus booms, “She is you and you are her, idiot! She has been waiting outside this mausoleum of yours since you sealed it up. I am done here! Enjoy the fresh air and reacquaint yourselves or don’t, it matters not to me!”

“Then why did you meddle with my dreams, if you don’t care?!”

Morpheus blew a great sigh that reached through my library and disturbed some cobwebs I had not noticed before.

“Because contrary to popular human wisdom, two heads are NOT better than one! From now on, there will be only a singular dreamscape made for you both - I am sick of fielding and weaving separate ones each night for the two of you!”

And with that, he left in a flourish of sage smoke and frankincense leaving me and my Betty standing at the threshold…

First Image: Depiction of Morpheus from oldworldgods.com

Second image: Album cover released by Santana back in the 70s featuring the demon/god, Abraxas.

*Abraxas mention is found in Gnostic texts and is often characterized as an Egyptian god and demon. Much has been written over the years about this dual-natured deity, yet little seems to be agreed upon.

*Morpheus is the Greco-Roman god of sleep believed to carry messages from the gods to kings (not so much common folk) via their dreams.

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