Rushing Perpetuity

When I remember my dreams, it's usually because they were extremely vivid. I do not always remember them. This one stayed with me for quite some time and even now, almost two months later, I can still recall it with fair clarity.

The same day I dreamt it, I typed it out--it was so incredibly intense, I didn't want to lose it. It felt real when I was in it and everything was deep, electric, vibrant and intense.

*****
January 13th, 2011

I dreamed of the ocean last night and it was huge, and vibrant and dark. It was shot through with colors in the midst of its black and blue-ness. Oranges and reds and deep pinks, but they were not reflections of a fiery evening sky. It was as if the ocean was imbued with colored electricity that was casting itself back and forth. Violence within violence. The waves were huge and crashing in giant curls of pounding white. The sand was dark brown and wet and full of every kind of shell imaginable. There were huge red stone archways that reached from sandy land into the feet of the sea.

I was in the in-between. In between the water than ran to the shore away from the waves that crashed into it, standing on the wet sand, my heels sinking in and my toes wet, with the dry sand on an incline a few paces away.

In this sand, if you just dug down a bit, were every type of shell imaginable. Every size, every shape, every color. Shells I had never seen before—and I was greedy, not believing my good fortune and find and I plunged my hands into the cool, wet sand and gathered the shells into my hands, and into my arms. I ran from spot to spot, my feet spattering through the lapping, rushing water. I glanced out at the ocean and saw that night was falling and a storm was moving in. The sky over the ocean was velvet navy and looked soft enough to cast yourself upon. The ocean was coming in and the waves were drawing closer.

I sprinted up to the steep, dry sand, and saw that the sun was setting low over the dunes. Beach grass waved back and forth, silhouetted against the swirl of orange and yellow sky. There was an old wood and wire fence that ran perpendicular to me. I wanted to set down my shells and go back for more, but there were a few people around me starting to notice the shells as well and I didn’t want them to take my cache, and so I carried them with me back down to the wet sand to collect more.

I stepped down into the water, flanked by black rocks at my back, the ocean and a steep incline of sand. I was in the shadow of the rocks and I started digging again in the wet sand as the waves went out and in and out and in. I found one that was shaped like a Vikings horn. It was smooth and creamy alabaster shot through with caramel and chocolate browns. I thought it must be a horn of some sea animal, and so I tucked it in with the others.

A woman leaned over and put her hand out to take some of my more beautiful shells and I slapped her hand away and said “No! They are mine—dig out your own.” And I wondered if I was wrong to speak in such a way, but quickly decided that I was not. Everyone must work for their own beauty and their own gain. I found more shells, swirling shells with spiny edges and smooth pink and coral colored insides, tiny shells that looked like soft ice cream cones, spattered with chocolate sprinkles, large smooth shells that must have been home to some soft-bodied creature, and creamy white and green fossilized shells that had been eaten through by time, and sand and water.

The water crept up. I looked out once again and the waves were coming in closer, even bigger than before. I knew if they caught up to me that they would pull me into the black, the shells would be lost and so would I. I stared—fascinated—wanting to reach in—to swim—but terrified to give myself into it.

And then I woke up.