I used to have such a good relationship with the night. It was my favourite time. It was a place I could go where the world shut off and I could just exist. I loved everything about it from the smell of cold, dark air to the dead silence that amplified my every breath. It was frozen time kept just for me and my things, a space not even the light could penetrate. I loved the way it felt on my skin and in my head. Quiet and calm.
Last night I had an amazing dream. I dreamt I was being hurtled into space in a rocket, catapulted from the Earth into a sea of stars. For a few moments I was terrified, rattling around in my seat as the abyss swallowed me, but when the engines finally stopped whirring and I was left just floating, I felt incredibly at peace. Space was beautiful. A vivid canvas of light and dark hanging still as I drifted silently through, becoming a part of the painting myself.
I awoke feeling uplifted and peaceful, like even though I’d awoken back on Earth I was still somehow up there. Hours later, I still can’t get over it. Probably because I can’t remember the last time I woke so happy from a dream. Usually my subconscious is a great place for my demons to wreak havoc, their own personal playground where I am surrendered to their control. I was surprised to have such a wonderful dream when in the evening I had felt so down and lost. I thought for sure this feeling would chase me into my sleep but I wound up chasing space instead and feeling more than free.
So why is it that sometimes the demons of the day to day mental health grind follow us through bedtime, and why is it that sometimes they don’t?