I followed the administrative officials around as they gave me a tour of their all-boys school. Thankfully, I wasn’t a boy myself this time. Not that I mind appearing as a male in my dreams, but in this situation, I’m glad that I didn’t.
Because this was worse than a dream. It was a nightmare.
This school was absolutely crazy.
It sort of resembled a prison, and many of the boys I saw were desperately doing drugs. One illegal drug many of them were seeking came in the form of a patch. One of the boys told me in his twitchy voice that this drug was rumored to deliver “Joy times 5,000.”
I could only frown. Something about that seemed hauntingly dangerous. Then as I looked out over the school, I saw smoke rising in the distance. All of the officials started running in the direction of it, so I followed.
We all stepped into a large music room with a piano sitting in the middle. The piano and the bench were completely scorched, and parts of the room were still touched by scattered, smouldering fires.
There were a couple of firemen there, tending to the scene. Over the murmurs of conversation I heard someone say that he—whoever was playing the piano—had exploded. Like, exploded into flames.
My stomach twisted. There were no physical remains left of the person who had been there. All that was left was the shadow of their incinerating creative fire. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a side effect of the drugs.
When I woke from this dream, I couldn’t help but think of the pressure I often feel to chase performance to be visible.
Supercharged.
Be frantically okay, but not okay.
Joy x 5,000.
Even if it leads to self-combustion.
Is it worth it?
It wasn’t easy, but I managed to fall asleep again after that.
In my dreams I saw a young man cleaning out a trailer. He uses it as a space where he plays music and his friends can come to dance. However, the owner of the trailer finds out about this and decides to show up during one of these dance sessions.
The young man meets with the trailer owner outside and shows him the physical record album that he had been playing. The man grabs the album from him, breaks it, and says, ”I don’t care what you’ve been playing. I just want everyone to leave.”
The young man looks at the destroyed record a bit heartbroken, but he replies, “This music may be old, but the classics are still important.”
Performance.
What’s performance compared to creating intimate spaces for what’s loved, regardless of the pressure?
Doing it and creating for the Classics.
Artificial Joy x 5,000 isn’t necessary.
I don’t need to supercharge or boost anything.
All I need to do is remember.