There is no reasonable explanation for the dream, in which I clung precariously to the front of a small airplane that was piloted by someone I did not know. But I knew of him; he had been tasked with teaching me new procedures for developing the cover for a technical book. To do that, the pilot ferried me (in the air) from one parking lot to another and back again as we searched for someone with whom to discuss the process of designing and printing book covers. We found the person and he explained the process. Next, I was in an Olympic-sized swimming pool, where I painted a black square on the surface of the water near one end of the pool. “That’s not the way we do it these days,” the pilot told me as we flew off again to seek more relevant education about the process.
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Perhaps sleeping—off and on—for ten hours had something to do with the dream, though I cannot imagine how. Like yesterday, my head pounded a bit when I awoke; and still does. Also like yesterday, though, the pain is relatively minor, just an annoyance more than an actual pain. Enough, though, to make me want to to incapacitate my nerve endings. If I knew just how to do that, I might. But I would have to get up from my chair, find some sort of semi-narcotic, and then wait far too long for the effect to take hold. So, instead, I sit here, silently complaining. If my fingers could scream, though, the silence would be pierced with howling wails as I stab the keyboard with angry, bitter fingers.
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I should be hungry this morning—and I am (just a tad)—but I am unwilling to try to eat anything just yet. If I were to try, I fear I might not be able to keep it down. Yesterday, I drank a small container of coffee-flavored Ensure and, later, ate a couple of spoonsful of Cherry Garcia ice cream. Obviously, not enough to sustain me for long, but enough to satisfy the shred of hunger I felt. This morning is much the same; very minor hunger kept at bay by concerns about overdoing it. I do not feel nearly as exhausted as I felt yesterday, but I remain very tired…with enough fatigue remaining that I might decide to return to bed. My growling stomach might keep me awake, though, even as empty as it is. Just a few sips of water this morning, sufficient to swallow a handful of pills. Why, I wonder, does my gut make such loud noises when there’s virtually nothing in it? I want an answer, but not badly enough to do any research on the subject.
