Couldn’t sleep last night. Was losing sleep for reasons I rather not disclose. Reasons, that caved on me like a mad wave of regret and anger and all the madness that characterizes regret and anger (thankfully I’m okay now, having spent a few minutes in a coffee shop to write/think my way out of things). The alarm sounded at 6am for I had to get up early for work. To get up at 6am meant I would have had only 2 hours of sleep. At 6am I hit snooze. During snooze I had a mini-dream. In dream I saw Miss Rowling, the Harry Potter author lady, whose actual picture I have actually never seen, so in my dream I had to picture her a rather old lady with a beret of bouncy blond hair. Miss Rowling was signing autographs at a bookstore. People lined up. I rushed to my room to fetch my diary book in which I wanted her to sign. So I got my diary book, brought it to Miss Rowling who looked rather annoyed at me, but nonetheless scribbled a fancy signature in my diary book and said to me, “Have you trouble with voice?” (I don’t expect this utterance to make sense to anyone, but it made perfect sense to me).
“I have a poor vocabulary,” I replied.
Then she pointed her finger at me and yelled, “It’s not about you! Ignore author bios. Check fancy musing. It’s not about you!”
It was a light-bulb moment. I woke up.
I try to tell people about this dream but nobody understands and neither do I expect them to understand. What matters is I understand. A kind spirit saw my troubles and entered my dream, taking the form of a Miss Rowling, to tell me what I need to hear. It was quite Zen-like.
“It’s not about you!”
It’s not about me.
Dear me. It’s not about me.
