Sometimes the subconscious mind seems fundamentally sadistic. Like some assassin charged with the slaughter of tranquility; waiting for the most inopportune, unexpected moment to dredge up old memories that have lain still and dormant for years. Recollections that, out of context, would seem innocuous, but given the full breadth of causal observation, instead weigh heavy and feel smothering.
As if aiming for impact and carnage, the moment of recollection is not descended upon in waking moments where one could intuitively shift focus, but rather cast in the hyper-fidelity of dream. Those distant moments becoming vivid and clarion as they are painted upon the mental canvas suspended in the most vulnerable of states. Unconscious, paralyzed, and unable to divert immersion. There is no defense.
Why should we relive memory in dreams? Isn’t it the very nature of memory to fade and be forgotten? To gradually lessen impact and mitigate struggle?
So, I awake this morning with an old familiar acquaintance at my side—an undesired emotion, an unwanted bedfellow who still slumbers, sprawled sweaty and covered in the lingering stench of spiritual inequity. Its breaths are out of sync creating discord in the moment of waking meditation.
Of course, now the moment has passed, and in rising I have left behind its tired and surreal connotations. Yet, a persistent aroma—a lingering mental stench—lofts about the day.
If I were one to lend to superstition, I would be concerned what omen such an awaking might herald.
If I were such a person, I would mostly likely ignore those inclinations and further my focus to distant thoughts destined for more constructive purpose. I would close the matter by writing an overly verbose reflection in prose to commemorate the unpleasant experience.