I had this dream when I was confined at the hospital last January 2016. Might be the product of my heavy medication (it does say “vivid dreams” on the long list of side effects), but this came to me as a bit of a shock.
In my dream, I entered a movie theater. Typical set up, with comfortable reclining red chairs, people grouped together, sitting apart from others. The lights were on yet there was nothing on the big screen, just static.
I walked down the aisle until I recognized them: some of my friends, some of the doctors from the hospital, all huddled together, checking out a familiar gray folder that contained my doodles, drawings and pen sketches. Some of them had this serious look on their faces while some were laughing, clearly enjoying the entries.
I leaned closer but nobody seemed to notice me. I had this feeling I was invisible, and perhaps I was. I have to confess, I laughed a bit, too, yet for the love of the gods I could not remember what might have been so amusing.
But then I felt a pang of consciousness; I was invaded. I didn’t give anyone permission to check out my drawings. I did nothing to stop them.
Then there was this loud thud coming from the entrance, which only I seemed to have noticed. I turned my head quickly to check what was there.
I turned my head back to the people who were checking my life’s work and saw them leaving their seats. They were finished checking me out. They were probably done making up their minds about me: who I am and who I was.
Curiously. the folder that contained so much detailed work – of my past, my present, my dreams, my aspirations – was then empty.
I was alone.
So I turned my head back towards the entrance and called for the only person who showed the most concern for my well-being at that time. I don’t even remember if she was there, but I hope my mom was the one who didn’t leave the room.