Maybe It Was the Cough Syrup

"So, how are ya feelin?" I heard, over and over today from a horde of both in-person and electronically-connected well-wishers.

"Different." Has been my repetitive reply. I have spun the Wheel-Of-Symptoms, and I have lost every time. It was one thing, then changed to another, then to another, then to another. Now my body is just pissed off, and has basically clamped down on any further medicinal exhibition.

Still, though, the time off afforded me the chance to catch up on sleep.

Sleep, that is, tinted with fatigue, fever, and over-the-counter cough syrup. Seriously, that shit can fuck you up good.

So, maybe it was the fever, maybe it was the cherry-flavored cocktail of expectorants and decongestants, but I have had the most bizarre gallery of dreams. Now, as some of you know, I tend to dream on the extreme end to begin with, but add a shot or two of Dextromethorphan, and watch out!

I have found myself showering in a public shower stall in the lobby of a doctor's office. I have cavorted with European prostitutes at my grandmother's house, which happened to be on a ship. I have been chased through a 1970's-style dark wood panelled shopping mall, with a dim smoked-glass interior and ridiculously over-sized escalators...

My poor repressed subconscious. It's had a busy week. One thing that it has kept coming back to, however, over and over, is flying. Planes flying, cars flying houses flying... You get the drift.

Most importantly, though, and something that has recurred enough times over my life to be recognized as something of a pattern, is me flying. Just me. And it always starts the same way.

First, I fall. I'm usually walking or running, and I trip or something, and I fall, but I miss the ground. Somehow, I dodge that persistent Newtonian vector, and I miss the ground. Then, I get back to my feet and think, "Oh ya, it's just like in those dreams, although I'm not dreaming now." And I go and do it again.

Once I do it intentionally, I gain some forward momentum and flight control.

Oh, and palm trees, I always end up plying over palm trees...

In the end, I wake up. No flight. Earthbound. Not even any European prostitutes. Yet, still somewhat satisfied.

Oh, and before all of you Junior Freud Scouts run out and grab your dream interpretation books, I'll just tell you, I've got this one figured out. I've observed its occurrence in connection to enough certain life-events to know its root, its trigger and its meaning, but really, thanks for playing along.

Now, I just need to get me some more of that cough syrup.