A brief moment of panic.

A recent dream:

I am working on a laptop. Several windows are open, the topmost of which is a letter of resignation. Clicking on another window reveals a website for an apartment rental agency in some faraway place. Clicking on another another window reveals a listing of full- and part-time night jobs in the same faraway place. Clicking on yet another window reveals the online registration page for a university nestled in the hills of the same faraway place.

I follow a link to my transcripts. The records indicate that I matriculated at this university in recent years, but I am running low on time to complete my degree. My grades are embarrassingly low. The registration page is already filled out; apparently I am about to sign up for 15 credit hours in the Fall 2012 semester. The “SUBMIT?” button blinks.

I break into a cold sweat. Apparently I am on the verge of quitting my job, going back to a college I don’t remember attending to complete a degree I don’t remember beginning after getting horrific grades in classes that I don’t remember taking, living in a cheap apartment and working night jobs to pay for the whole thing.

Why don’t I remember any of this? What would make me even consider uprooting my life for such an ill-considered plan? And how on Earth were my grades so awful?

Then I remember that I have a great job. I have money. I can do whatever I want. A calm settles over me. I close all the windows and shut the laptop. I am at peace…

…until my cell phone beeps: it’s the President. Again. I get up, push through the oaken double doors of my office into a massive dining hall, where he’s hosting dozens of dignitaries and diplomats.

An attendant pulls my motorcycle around. I hop on it and tell Obama to text me the details later. I rev up the bike, jump it up on the hundred-foot long dining table, and speed towards the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end. Some of the guests scream, some fall backwards in their chairs, some are stunned with awe. Fine china and crystal fly everywhere. I blast through the glass unscathed, off to my next assignment.

5 thoughts on “A brief moment of panic.

  1. A subconscious commentary on feeling caught in the commitment of a chosen life and the stress that accompanies it? The subconscious urge to be uncertain and ambitious? Of wanting failure for fear of triumph?

    I don’t know. Dreams are strange. Mine are all losing teeth, zombie elephants and friends, of self sacrifice for fear of trying and failing, and tornados tearing apart familiar settings of past years, and my father killing himself? And those are all reoccurring. If I went off of what I dreamt, I would be a very sad person.


  2. Freud would somehow relate this back to sex or a repressed childhood moment and let you know it’s not your fault. Then he’ll let you know therapy never stops and you’ll need to see him for the rest of your life. (Expensive)

    Roger would basically repeat your dream back to you using different words. But you’d never get any realy advice because the answer would “lie within you”. (May as well just talk to yourself…it’s cheaper)

    Skinner would give you the best italian food of you life every night you didn’t have a dream or had a “good” dream. But would force you to eat Michelina’s or some other frozen “italian” dish for every dream or “bad” dream. (of course, no two Skinnerians can agree on what kind of dreamer you should be turned into so ignore them and eat the best italian food any time you think you’ve earned it)


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