The divarication station

Of all the nightmares I had as a child, only one has left a lasting impression on my adult self.  

It goes like this: you’re running hard, trying to get away from some evil something.  Your arms are pumping, your legs are bionic machines propelling you forward as your breath quickens into exhaustion.  But try as you might to move fast, you’ve only put away inches. Something’s slowing you down.  You’re stuck in a gigantic vat of goo.  Or jelly or wet cement.  You are stationary.  Futile motion surrounds you and the harder you try to overcome it, the quicker you succumb to immobility.

More than falling from a great height to certain death, being kidnapped in a zoo, and even more than a clown haunting— the “running in place” illusion grew up alongside my most opulent daydreams.  I detested that feeling of treading water.  Having the power and will to escape what hunted me, yet not achieving a clean break-away.  It brought forth such physical frustration that most times I encountered the terror, I’d wake up with tears crusted in the corners of my eyes.  I still detest it.  

I used to walk along Wacker and the Chicago River to get to work.  Last week I looked down and imagined I was buoyed in the filthy water.  Tethered to a clutching weight around my ankles.  I wasn’t necessarily sinking, but my limbs wouldn’t answer motion’s call when I swam.  Like trying to do jumping jacks in a straightjacket.  

If only I could see the forest for the trees, eh?  

Maybe this recurring nightmare of sans-motion is a gentle reminder to slow down and to stop constantly seeking the next change of scenery.  OR is it some deep-seeded fear of helplessness that plagues my larval psyche and pokes its neotenous head out on occasion- lest I grasp hold of pulpy, fibrous maturation?

Whatever the explanation, I’m worn and incidentally tired of caging too many of my dreams.  And nightmares.  Do your worst, diurnal incubi— I’m a pretty strong swimmer.