Sleepwalking Visions by Tim Frank

I’m sleepwalking at night again but my wife sleeps so deeply she can’t hear my cries for help. Tonight, I’m balancing on a boat on the choppy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. I hear hungry seagulls gliding through the salty air. “You can’t make me jump!” I call out to the fleets of ships and submarines that have surrounded me. “I will never give in.”   When I crack my head on the medicine cabinet and cotton buds fall to my feet like confetti, I realise the cold tap from the bath is overflowing and I’m standing on the weighing scales, waving a loo roll at the mirror.

 
Over breakfast I point a spoon dripping with milk at my wife and say, “You know, you could be a little more alert when I’m asleep, I could really hurt myself.”
“Don’t I deserve a good night’s sleep, too?” she says. “You really are clueless, aren’t you? Only when you grasp the root of your problem will you be able to conquer it.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. My wife’s a therapist, and she can be quite obnoxious.
The next night I am rambling across the Great Wall of China and I trek for miles past fortified lookouts where strange children with cobwebs for eyes stare with horror at my bare toes as if they are oozing with blood. I’m so sorry, I whisper. Suddenly I hear a sound like a growling beast, and I stub my toe on the fireplace, quickly waking. A car with a grinding engine speeds over bumps in the nearby carpark.

I take a seat on the futon. It’s stained with a patch of sticky orangeade in the shape of Fidel Castro. I spilled the drink during a vivid dream about a bloody massacre in the French Revolution, as packs of savage men roamed the countryside with guillotines, beheading farmers and lonesome hobos.

But now I’m fully awake, I take the chance to scroll through some photos archived on my phone. Maybe they can provide insight into my waking life, because my dreams are simply too baffling.

I find an array of pics of me and my wife’s trip to Disneyland Paris.

My wife has a sparkly pair of €20 Mickey Mouse ears planted on her head. She appears in almost every shot with them, and I’ve never seen her so happy. How do these pictures connect with my dream life? The children waving wands as they swarm through the gloom of the giant Disney castle, the parade floats with princesses wearing crystal tiaras, and the insipid families singing Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.” I guess the Disneyland trip was as strange, dismal, and dreamy as any of my sleepwalking visions.

I go to bed. I navigate the darkness cloaking my bedroom, fingering the contours of my wardrobe next to my bed, and, for once, everything is where it should be. I lie beside my wife whose gentle snores have stopped and although I know her eyes are shut, I can tell she is awake. I wait a few moments, sinking into the stillness.
“I’m not a perfect husband,” I say, breaking the silence, “and I’ve realised something: I’m always exploring the world, roving Everest and the North Pole, but always alone in my night-time adventures. I don’t know how to change that. But, starting now, I want to seize the night, embrace my sleep, and maybe sometime you’ll follow me in my dreams and we’ll get lost together.”

My wife doesn’t answer, she must be asleep after all. I think I’ll join her.

Tim Frank

Image by u_qby0mlczvx from Pixabay– Nightime view of Disneyland castle, Paris