Necrotic

I had a very, very weird dream the other night.

My christ, I am turning into the blog in which I drone on and on about my exciting dreams. What's next? Recipes? Prayer circles? T shirts proclaiming my love for baby jee-sus?

I won't tell you the whole of the bizarre dream except this part. The prominent word of this dream was "Necrotic" - and I said it at least a dozen times IN the dream. During the dream, it seemed perfectly rational that I not only know the word, but was using it in what turned out to be the correct context.

However, upon waking I thought:

1: Where the fuck did I pick up this word?
2: What the fuck was I dreaming about that for?

In the spirit of Feral's Toe post, the weak of stomach should stop reading.

The essence of the dream was that There was bump on my left hand - index finger. I began scratching at it absentmindedly in the dream. As I scratched, the skin peeled away to reveal a long piece of plastic which had become trapped under my skin. It almost looked as if I had left a piece of saran wrap on my finger and it was pale blue and drowned looking.

As I pulled it away, I realized that my whole hand was like this under my skin. Blue-ish. Moist. Necrotic. Which I repeated again and again.

Necrotic. It was almost a comforting word, and I kept saying it over and over in my dream as I peeled the skin from my hand.

Now, I don't dream frequently, but when I do, it is almost always my unconscious smacking me. An old therapist once told me that my dreams were the most archetypal he had ever encountered. Having sat with this one for a few days I think that I am coming to terms with my past year.

I quite literally felt dead inside. Yeah, the skin on the outside was functioning. Everything looked ok - but inside? Nothing going on. Flat lined. Call it depression, call it whatever you want. I took a year long vacation from my life, but not to a sunny island. Nope. I went to the Isle of Shitalot, where I was beaten by humorless albino monks and forced to eat old tuna noodle wiggle. With canned peas. Shudder

Within the past week, it is as if a switch has clicked. I am thinking in stories again. Writing is FLOWING out of me. I want to read blogs. I want to re-design mine.

And with all things necrotic, you have to peel it away before the healthy skin can take it's place. My old skin is shedding.