I’ve been out of commission for the past few days due to the onset of an upper respiratory infection. It left me quite weak and unable to do much more than pop various pills while drinking tea. Although I’m finally starting to get better, the images of my fever dreams still linger.
Before I proceed, I must admit: I’m high on caffeine right now. I haven’t had a cup of coffee since being sick, and now I’m about 4 cups in, plus the aforementioned pills of various origins. Lightheaded is an understatement. My head is a hot air balloon filled with apricot jelly and pistachio nuts. And actually, that has nothing to do with the pills and coffee.
During the height of my illness, I woke in the dead of night, shivering. It took but a moment to realize why. I had been sweating so profusely that my shirt and pajama bottoms were soaked through. Not only that, but I had sweat straight through to the blanket and sheets. I was sopping wet with sweat. It dripped from every pore as if my body proposed to purge me of water entirely.
This, I’m sad to say, was not a fever dream. After a delirious few minutes undressing, changing the sheets, moping sweat from myself, I finally plunged back into a deep sleep of hallucinatory dreams so surreal and schizophrenic that I could have been in a Dali painting.
I emerged first into a crowd of screaming miniatures. I floated among these mostly faceless people as if through one of the circles of hell. As they grasped at me, each of their words fought with the others to penetrate my face holes. But it all sounded like so much mush-mouthed wailing. Then, as if by Star Trek transportation, I was in a alleyway fighting for my life against some kind of pumpkin tomato with robotic workings on the inside. It was manned by a squirrel, sitting atop the stem with tiny controls. There had been an internal apocalypse, and I was a survivor. Or else, I was one of the damned. It’s all terribly confused in my mind.
There was more, so much more. But as time goes by I’m forgetting. I didn’t have the energy to write it down, and now I’m regretting it. Then again, none of it would probably make it into a story. I’d tried using dreams as inspiration before, and it never seemed to work for me.
Do you use your dreams as inspiration?