I woke up from a very strange dream. Actually bizarre is how I would describe it.
I was dressed to my usual Mafioso nines. The Mafiosi black coat, tie, shirt and shoes
is my trademark for formal occasions. I
was in some event in a hotel ballroom. The
venue was full but I did not recognize any faces. I casually walk past them to the stage with
the curtains still drawn down.
I climb the stage, go under the curtains and in there was a
sound technician in a fedora hat and a formal suit as well. He was tweaking some control board. I stayed with him, looked at what he was
doing. He repeatedly asked me “Sir, are
you ready”? It seemed liked I was being
primed for some performance.
A very classy lady, older than I broke the curtains and
asked for some music to be played. Something
“happy” was what she asked for, with a very happy smile. The technician agreed and she left.
After some time the curtains opened and there I was. The audience was a mere crowd of about
20. There could have been more. They all raised their glasses and cheered
me. The were raising their glasses to
congratulate me. I was happy. I came down from the stage and posed for
photographs with the crowd. They had no
faces. I left the ballroom.
As I passed in the lobby, I saw some relatives and friends in
various parts of the hotel - at the cafe', at the bar. Those that I came across kept congratulating me. I was smiling but had a feeling of what was
happening.
It was my wedding reception.
As I passed the lobby I felt I was going to my hotel
room. Suddenly this fear was growing in
me. Where was my bride? The other question was WHO was my bride? I began to sweat. Anxiety was building up. I make my way to the rooms on stairs…..
I woke. The room was
darker than usual for day. The skies
were gray because of the passing storm. It was colder than usual. Unaware of the time, I realized it was past
lunch on a Saturday.
I still lay in bed looking at the ceiling. Wondering what was real. My hands felt
sweaty. It seemed so real. Bizarre.
Dreams are said to be representative of one’s
subconscious. They are what they are. Could be a summary of experiences. A flashback. Could forebode something. It could also be a just a dream.
I lay there staring at the
ceiling after realizing what I had woken up to.
Details were still fresh. The feeling
was there. I still try to ascertain
which was real-me on the bed or the hotel thing? I just had an Akira Kurososawa like moment......
Before I rise, I ask myself, what are dreams made of?
As I write this, mushy music plays in harmony with the dark skies and falling rain. I ask myself again what are dreams made of?
