Keeping myself afloat with the air in my lungs

A bit of variety wouldn't hurt on this old blog. Here, have a dream. This one I remembered vividly, and wrote down whilst still in the crustyeyed fog of sleep. It's quite all over the place, and may be a bit hard to follow, but the way I recall feeling and sensing in the dream is quite intense. Now it is published for your Freudian pleasure. Feel free to post analyses.



The building is quite dark. People are lit only by the glowing LED’s on gaming machines. I am working in a place that is like Tilt (a long dead arcade) meets Tradies, where I take drinks to grown men playing on children’s “bop the alligator” machines with undue seriousness. I receive a service request from a machine, which I sit down to fix, when – from behind – these hands come over me and I don’t know whose they are, and I’m too terrified to move. I leave in a hurry and go back to the bar. Then I receive another request from the same gaming room for drinks. Furious, I storm in there and yell at one of the men in the room to tell me who was touching me before and he said “I don’t know, I was just ordering for everybody” then looked out the door suspiciously, where I saw a Kenyan guy and knew he was the one who had touched me before (you know how in your dreams you just know these things specifically even when they’re not definite?). In an uncontrollable rage I chase this guy, until I catch up with him and grab a hold of his collar. He keeps running, and my feet leave the ground until I’m flying behind him, hanging from his collar like a cape. He stopped. We spoke momentarily. I forget what about. I had to leave because I knew I had a performance in a lecture hall within this strange gaming world. You know when you are trying to float in water, and you have to hold breath in your lungs to do so? That’s what I had to do in order to fly meters above the people sitting in the lecture hall, keeping myself afloat with the air in my lungs, all whilst singing along to a song that was playing in the background. I thought this was very impressive of me, but all the eyes in the lecture hall were turned to the front in ignorance of my feat. The only person who noticed me was a girl, who said “I’m sorry, I just can’t help noticing how sweaty her legs are!” In retort, I put up my middle finger to the audience below, flying to and fro. The song ended and I landed. I asked my old English teacher Abi how my “performance” was, and she said “It was good, but it looked as though you were slipping around a bit up there”. I asked her how the wedding went (in real life, I was to perform at her wedding the next day with two friends, Ellie and Steph). She looked disappointed and said “I don’t know, how did it go?” and then I realised I was supposed to go and had forgotten. I turned in embarrassment to face the wall behind me, where someone had written graffiti in Icelandic. Then someone had tried to translate it below, but I told Abi that they had done a terrible job of it. Next thing, I am walking in a mass exodus across a barren field, talking to an older man. He says 9 shipments of his came in today. I think to myself he is one of the lucky ones. There is a feeling of apocalypse. We step into one of his ‘shipments’ and the edge of the barren field – it is more like an oversized gypsy caravan – and I notice that the slaves and workers put things in them, as their only way of communication with the outside world. Things like photos of their wives and their newborn baby. I pick up a shredded sweet potato out of an old rusty bucket and ask the older man if I can eat it now or later. He looks at me, sternly, and says “Later might be better”.
That is that.