I don't want to even think about what happened in that dreamn when I eventually got to that house. It's just too horrible.
"But it was a dream, try to talk about it."
But the dream was so horrible, so disturbing, so threatening to what I believed was, the true me, my essential self...that I hesitated.
"Try to be authentic, that is quite a knack when talking about your dreams...it takes skill and courage to be honest about one’s experience of a dream."
I looked at her, the dream was so horrifying that I could not even begin to speak about it.
She took me in, evaluating me, weighing me "...not always an easy thing to talk about one's dreams when the protagonist is one’s own brave little ego, and the events of the dream conspire, as they typically do, to mock, befuddle, humiliate and otherwise degrade one to an ignominiously passive role in the proceedings."
"Well, that is exactly how I feel about my dream and I still can't quite talk about it."
"In many ways," she assured me, "... one does not so much dream, as find oneself being dreamt.
So she figuratively expressed it for me, I didn't dream, I was dreamt by the dream.
As time went by I would talk about this dream but in a tidied-up, sanitised or ego-bowdlerised version. If there was a truth in that dream I certainly didn't want to ever face it.
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