Tangled Dreams of this Mortal Coil

When I woke this morning I realized that I had a midsummer night’s dream within a dream. In the beginning, I was roused by the patter of tiny, padded feet on my bedroom floor. Cloaked in a pall, my mind reached for the switch to illuminate the quiet, unknown guest but my arm stayed limp on the mattress. A heavy weight pinned my chest and limbs; I could neither move nor see. My lips formed a whispered plea but the calm did not come quickly. Panic rose as the padded feet approached and leapt from the floor to my bed and landed near my feet. The animal was small, lithe and boasted four delicate paws that started between my immobile ankles toward my face. Struggling harder to reach the switch, my arms stayed in place. I would not be able to confront the creature in the light so I lay helpless as my mind darted around for a solution. The animal stepped onto my abdomen and walked a few more steps to settle on my chest. With some difficulty my hand broke free and reached up to feel the conical ears and the silky fur. A distinctly feline purr revealed the nature of this guest but not its identity. This cat, although unknown, appeared to be amiable so I stroked its fur to calm us both until I woke up in another dream.

Stepping out of bed, climbing the stairs, splashing my face with water and brushing my teeth, I begin a new morning. Bread slides into the toaster and the fridge opens. Confronted by bright light and an electric hum, I scan the shelves for preserves and milk. I shut the door, comestibles in hand, and begin to assemble my breakfast on the counter. My sister enters and I ask her, “We didn’t get a new cat, did we?” A quizzical look crosses her face. “Why do you ask?” I proceed to detail my dream while pouring myself some milk and she tells me, “I have heard of that before. Some cultures say it’s the devil sitting on your chest.” “Wait, the cat?” “No, that feeling of being unable to move even though you are wide awake.” “An apt name, I must admit, it was paralyzing. Pun intended.” She rolls her eyes. I offer her toast and then I wake up.

Now I am sitting in front of a bright screen in the dark of my crowded room. The books I have been reading are encroaching upon my side of the bed and I keep pushing them toward that empty space on the other side. I keep thinking about how that feeling, the “devil sitting on my chest,” is familiar. It was as vivid in my dream as it was when I was awake and having the same experience. I am in awe that my brain can produce such elaborate reproductions of reality. What a strange thing: to be both delighted by and suspicious of one’s own brain, attempting to untangle verity from fantasy.

Once (or maybe a few times) I read this play, in which, the protagonist is caught in a loop of questioning. In the most famous soliloquy, perhaps the best known in the English language, death and suicide becomes knotted up with images of sleep and dreams. You may have heard it:

To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.

Painted by scholars in shades of yellow, he is a tragic figure to be pitied. Critics have called him a coward, saying he could not commit to a decision but I have empathy for this man. He is bold enough to ask if there is something worth the trouble that life brings. He grapples with despair and gets caught up in confusion but at least he is asking, thinking, reasoning and wrestling. When paralyzed by panic and desperation he reaches out even with one nearly powerless hand in the dark and finds comfort in a friend and a prayer.