I used to have a dream notebook. Each dream gets a written account, a colorful drawing, a list of key elements and their equivalent meanings in dream dictionaries, and a short passage where I’d explain my overall interpretation. Sometimes I would read these entries again so that I can see if any of my predictions came true, or if any of my previous dreams were interpreted correctly or incorrectly in light of current events.
My dreams when I was a child were pretty dark. I used to dream of monsters. I didn’t understand why I’d have such nightmares. My tolerance for scary stuff was very low that’s why I never watch scary movies, scary tv shows, or read scary books. I never understood why anyone would want to watch something scary. I mean, why would you go out of your way, waste your time, and pay for something that will haunt you in your sleep?
My mom would blame Charmed, or CSI, or Alias for my nightmares. She thinks those are already really scary stuff, and that I shouldn’t be watching them. Now I know where I got my low tolerance for scary stuff.
Up to now I still love watching tv shows and movies about crimes and witches. I am ok with thrillers. What I can’t stand is supernatural scary stuff like ghosts. I can only tolerate ghosts stuff if the other characters have powers like they’re witches, but if they are ordinary humans, I’m scared to death.
As a child my other recurring dream involved strings. There were several strings around me, and I remember I would sometimes get a glimpse of a spinning wheel. I couldn’t see myself. Everything around me was black except for the strings, which were white. I could only see my hand, and I was holding a pair of scissors. I would try to cut the strings with the scissors, but the strings would remain uncut. When I grew up I learned about the Fates and that they would cut one’s string of life to end a person’s life. What did those dreams mean? Was I a suicidal kid?
I did have a happy childhood. I had my cousins to play with. I had lots of toys. There were things I loved: writing, singing, and drawing. I felt loved. But somehow I felt lonely. I was an only child, and I remembered lots of times where I would be playing alone with my dollies. In my baby voice, I liked screaming “I want to die,” but I don’t think I really understood what dying meant.
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Age of the Diary by Jasmine T. Cruz. If you like this post, please subscribe to this blog. Follow Ja on Twitter: ageofthediary. Email Ja at: firstname.lastname@example.org.