Since starting this blog, I’ve tried to write down my dreams in the hope that I may discover a subject for a story. Usually my dreams are nothing more than vague images and fragments of memories, as most dreams usually are, and they fade from my memory before the end of the day, as most dreams usually do. On the few occasions that I remember most of what I saw, I tend to find that my dream was just me going through what I normally go through in a day. This tends to anger me since I feel like I have been forced to back track and relive something I have already gone through, or that instead of acting as a respite from reality the dream just put on an eighth day to my week. But every now and then I strike gold, and when I stumble from bed to my computer and type my dream I find something magical; like digging up a time capsule, only to find gold instead.
When I do remember enough of my dream to make it worth the time to write it down, I usually don’t remember the actual act of writing so when I sit down and read about my dream, I get to be surprised by it all over again. It would be like taking that gold you dug up and hiding it in the back of your sock drawer, only to be found when you put on that last pair of socks with the holes in it that you only save to remind you that you should probably do your laundry. Then, lo and behold, you find enough gold to buy enough socks for everyone on the block.
So today, being either absolutely out of ideas or too lazy to finish writing some short stories I’ve been working on, I opened the file labeled “Dreams” on my desktop to look for something I could post today. And what I found was this:
Living in Germany during World War II, fighting Nazis by smuggling alligators out of the country.
I can vaguely remember the dream itself and although the description is rather short, I do recall the dream being rather long and detailed. It seemed like the perfect choice.
And yet, as I stare at the blank Word document waiting for me to start typing, I realize that nothing I could say would do justice to the idea. I know it was important work, smuggling the alligators out of Berlin, and I know it was hurting the Nazis something fierce, but I can’t bring myself to elaborate or explain any of these things further; I’m just too afraid I’d fuck up its purity, the ever-loving “awesomeness” of it.
So instead of drawing out a scenario from an idea that I’m not sure even Hemingway could justify in a story, I’ll just leave you all with the muse itself. How does stealing alligators hurt the Nazis? I have no idea, but I do know Hitler hated that I was, and man, fuck that guy.