The State of Strange and Weird

In the Bible, God sent Joseph, son of Abraham, dreams as a message – even sometimes a warning. Many dreams that we dream now are still full of mysterious meaning. If a dream is recurring, it often means that the message is so powerful and important that it refuses to go away, that one showing of it just isn’t enough. We are then forced to pay attention and search for what must be found in order for these dreams to end. Repetitive dreams are often more of nightmarish and horrific content, frightening to the point where we may become too fearful to attempt sleep once more.

What separated my nightmares from dreams was not so much its content, but their endings. The one recurring dream I could always remember was this dark finishing to my nightmares. It was the defining moment that concluded whether or not I could even consider the dream to be a nightmare. I can have interesting and unusual dreams where some of the most alarming things can happen, and yet I would still refrain from categorizing it as a nightmare unless it ended with this piece. There was no undertone of fear unless this revealed itself in the crevices of my mind.

I am a baby, perhaps three months old. The crib I lie in is of normal size, white and with tall wooden spindles along the four sides. Other than the white sheet over the mattress, there is no pillow, blanket, or toys that lie beside my healthy and squirming form. I am lying on my back, my chubby hands reaching for my toes. I am carefree, but retain an awareness of the shadows around me. The walls are a pale blue, the carpet a crisp white. Again, only three sides of the nightmare are visible. My head is resting on the side of the crib closest to where a large, long window is. It is open, a light breeze blowing through and rustling the sheer white curtains.

The moon is large; it’s illustrious glow seeping into the room and outshining the pearly starts. My tiny hands reach above my head, my back arching as I focus on the moon above and behind me. Little coos escape my infantile lips. A warmer, yellowish glow slowly creeps along the wall and into the room as the door is pushed open. Its hinges creak eerily. The shadow of the figure is cast along the wall. I struggle to make out its features. The even ridges of a headpiece start to form. A pointed snout arises next. Strands of thin darkness signal wisps of unruly hair. It emerges, the yellow skin of BJ from the PBS show Barney vibrant against the obscurities of the room.

The dinosaur’s once publicly loved and adored costume was now disorderly and ugly. His mouth was stitched upward into an evil grin, his brows knitted together menacingly. A glint of moonlight reflects off of the cold metal of the butcher knife that the puppet is holding. He lifts it into the air, its arm bent in the populous stabbing position. He stalks closer to me, my naïve self babbling away gently in the crib. There is a heaviness in the dream, a cruel desolate undertone to the brief conclusion. BJ goes to bring the knife down upon my infant form…and then I awake.