Chasing a Dream

I can’t stand when I can’t remember my dreams. I know I have them, every night, in full color and Surround Sound, and sometimes starring “celebrities” I despise (which, come to think of it, is most of them). I know I have them because I wake up either remembering them completely, down to the last detail, or so vaguely that those details not only elude me but escape even farther away the harder I try to remember them, the way mercury does when the thermometer breaks on the bathroom floor and the little gray orbs refuse to be corralled despite the best of efforts.
All I know about tonight’s feature presentation is that it was based on The End Of The World (yes, I suppose it was “REM” sleep, then) and my realization that my time is pretty much limited. In other words, “the usual”. This dream theme has haunted me for as long as I can remember, starting with one particularly sweet occasion when I was about six and I dreamt of bombs falling onto a battlefield populated by men in “George Washington hats”. On impact, the bodies of those men exploded into tiny pieces, each of which started to do a push-up onto the bloody battleground. And there the dream ended. Or at least that’s as far as I could remember it then.
I woke up screaming and in tears, which of course brought my mom into the room, where I told her about the dream. She soothed me, or at least tried to, by telling me to think about something pretty. I tried desperately to fill my mind with a field full of perky, smiling daisies, but it didn’t work. I waited all night for it work.
I’m still waiting.