Last night I woke up around 1am from the strongest sensation of being rocketed up to the kosmos, and wanting to come back to earth to my body. I saw the circles of the universe and consciousness before and around me, twirling in patterns at light-speed, in a way that was impossible to control. Whether is was vertigo or orgasm was unclear, but I awoke in the deep terror of having just survived my own death and ascension to the skies.
It had been a long dream, and while I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, I knew there was a story there. I was tired, barely awake and wanted and needed more sleep, and cloudily thought I’d remember the dream the next day if I just repeated it to myself enough.
But a dream is never the same the next day, never as potent or alive, and neither is creativity in the harsh light of day. I knew that if I wanted to remember it, I had to write it down there and then. That’s why I keep my journal close to my bed.
I forced the light on, the notebook open, and grasped the pen. I wrote like how I imagine David Lynch writes; straight from the subconscious, without letting thought intervene. Sometimes a word only appeared in Swedish; then I’d use that. I didn’t care about spelling or grammar or punctuation, unless they came to me too. I wrote quickly, tiredly and sleepily, wanting to be finished, but there was a lot to get down. I nodded off several times, but fought to stay focused enough to keep the memory there, and the hand working. Everything else I had to let go of, and managed to work in that magical state between awake and asleep where I can genuinely believe in my writing, where there are no filters and only the purest imagination and passion. If a thought came about how it won’t make sense or be bad in the morning, I just let is sail away, until I was done and could go back to sleep.
It’s the best kind of writing, but it’s expensive. When the alarm goes of in the morning in time for my daily walk, I feel like a zombie.
After work I sit down to type the writing up. And yes, being fully in my conscious Ego now, I laugh at the absurdity of some the words, scenes and so-called story. Quite often I can’t even make out what I’ve written.
It’s a shame that my subconscious and my consciousness don’t work at the same time. But I have learnt that I need both to create a good story; the unhindered flow of pure creativity, and the structure and coherence of the waking, thinking mind. The almost unreadable scribbles of the half-sleeping mind and hand, and the sleep-deprivation that comes with it are painful, but absolute gifts to the me in in the day, when I can work them into something readable. It’s a difficult relationship, but a very helpful and fruitful one. My day-self is so grateful to my night-self for staying awake, through the discomfort. And for the discomfort I feel today, there is coffee. As well as the reward of new material.