Music Recurring

Recurring dreams are interesting, simply for that fact — that they don’t go away. If we subscribe to the idea that our brains are working through short-term memory fragments, human issues, unspoken desires, all of it, then does a dream that returns in altered forms mean that your mind is grappling with something it can’t quite parse? Or that you’re not addressing a core need or suppressed part of your identity? Or … maybe you dream about flying simply because flying is fun?

One of the recurring dreams I have is sitting at a musical instrument (usually a piano keyboard) and being able to channel music as it emerges from my mind, through that instrument in an effortless, virtuosic way. I had one of these dreams last night. I was writing music on-the-fly, but I wasn’t just playing it on the keys. I was almost feeling it into existence, intense emotions rolling through me as the music grew and flourished. It wasn’t only the sound of a piano, the keys also emanated strings, ominous bass notes, and other musical layers in the air around me. There are usually people near me in these music dreams, but they aren’t often paying attention to what I’m doing even though it’s clearly supernatural.

What’s even stranger is that it’s not always a musical instrument that I’m “playing” in these dreams. I dreamed a version a few years ago where I was tapping my fingers on the back of a pew in a church, and another where I was striking a wooden board on my lap, with the same results. Effortless waves of music emanating into the space around me, a wide-open river between my own imagination, inner ear and the resulting aural tapestry.

In the real world, I’m nowhere remotely close to virtuosic, and there is no brain link that causes music to appear in the room around me (though I’ve secretly wished for that kind of technology more than once). Aside from the frustration about my lack of capabilities upon waking from these dreams, the other thing that follows me around during the morning after is the memory of how intensely meaningful and euphoric the feelings were. Imagine music physically passing through the core of your body and playing your emotions in the same way you are playing the notes. It’s hard to describe how amazing it is, and how much I miss it once I’m awake.

Regardless of the fact that I’ve failed to write any music for decades (since I left my last career) the pull of it refuses to die inside of me and insistently reminds me through these dreams that there are still things left to say. The wall that prevents these musical urges from escaping goes beyond just my inability to channel — it’s also tied to the ever-present fear that anything I say will flow out into the void of the world and fizzle into nothingness before it graces a single ear. There is something terrifying about speaking into a giant, empty space where you are the only one who may witness the echoes of your own fevered expression. It’s a fear anchored in heart-wrenching loneliness.

However, I think I must give in to this dream that continues to haunt me, and embrace the Nowhere. I should do it not because it may actually mean anything to anyone in the end, but because it’s there in the first place.