Oy. Nightmare.

Can’t even really describe it adequately, certainly not explain why it was scary–there was a wizened mermaid-like creature, an enormously fat naked woman who knew where I was at all times, and the house I grew up in. Something had locked itself in my old bedroom because it thought it was me.  Some kind of variation on the thing-that-won’t-die dreams, I think, except that it was less “really annoying” and more “absolutely horrific.” Not even Ben could protect me, and my subconscious, resisting all knowledge of the psychology of cats, had him trying. I even dreamed that I woke up, and went to pet him, and found crusts of scar tissue all along his back, and of course that meant that it was real, and then I was right back in the dream again.

All in all, it was the sort of dream where you wake up covered in sweat and roll over and grab the person next to you, and press your forehead between their shoulderblades and shudder. Lacking such, I got up instead, checked Ben for scars–look, you never KNOW–and turned on the BBC. Decided to turn on the lights and get up long enough to make sure I didn’t wind up back in the dream again. Since my mindset at the moment is the sort where I’m afraid to look out the window for fear of what might be pressed against the glass, I did a little work on the next painting, and now am blogging, in an effort to distract myself.

(Ben is sitting next to me on the desk as I type this…he doesn’t know why I’m up at this hour, and doesn’t much like it.)

Phew.