In front of me sat a young girl, replacing my usual psychotherapist.
She silently looked at me, at the documents on the table in front of her, periodically
glancing at my unusual gray hair on my head for my age.
From the moment I came here, I did not say a word, answering monosyllabically and preferring
to remain silent in response to questions where it was impossible to answer that.
For a while we sat in silence, listening to the measured ticking of the clock and the
rustling of the pen, to which she persevered to take notes.
"... Let's start again, perhaps," she sighed, and continued.
- Your relatives say that you refuse to sleep, writing off everything for insomnia, and refuse
to take sleeping pills and prescriptions for you.
I continued to look silently at the hands folded on my knees.
- You were diagnosed with neurosis due to stress due to job loss.
But you argued that insomnia manifested itself before that, right?
I nodded without looking up.
From the doctor's side, there was a rustling of a writing pen.
- According to your previous visits to the therapist and according to your stories it
was found that before that you had dreams that supposedly prophesied the death of others,
in particular, your colleague from work, am I right?
Sighing, I looked at the time on my wristwatch, and then looked at the doctor sitting on the
other side of the table, and answered dryly:
- No, it's not.
The girl looked at me for a minute, then took a note and looked me in the eye again.
- Could you, then, explain the reason for your refusal of sleeping pills?
"Listen, write me a recipe or something, so that I can leave here," I could not resist.
- Yes, of course, I will write out your usual recipe.
But until the end of the session we still have time, and ...
"I've already done a lot of sessions with several specialists, they all tried to find
out why and why," I began again, tapping my thumb over the linked hands.
- I have already said the reason - too clearly felt dreams.
On this you can finish.
Again there was silence, the rustling of handles and the rustling of paper.
The therapist glanced from time to time, tearing herself away from the records, waiting for
me to continue.
The same thing happened the next time.
In the end, I was threatened with hospitalization because of the continuing insomnia and now
with close attention for my health of relatives and relatives.
"You know," I began at the next session, interrupting the silence, "is it a feeling when it becomes
hard for you to run in a dream?"
The therapist, writing something before, broke off and looked at me.
- Of course.
Due to the fact that our body is plunged into the "saving mode", the activity of the nervous
system decreases and it affects in a dream, - as if reading a paragraph from the book,
she said.
"Yes, that's right," I agreed, nodding, "but I'm just interested in the sensations at this
moment."
At all they are similar.
You seem to be enveloped by something thick at the moment when you are trying to run with
all your might.
And the more you try to run forward, the stronger you are drawn back.
Frowning, the therapist reluctantly, but agreed with me.
"But," I continued, "if you master the so-called lucid dreams, you can control these moments."
It becomes easier to run, beat, scream, and dreams become even more vivid.
At this moment, the session time was over, since I again sat at it first, playing in
silence.
I was discharged and I left.
The next session with the therapist, I waited a little nervous, still thinking about whether
to decide on hospitalization or all the same to undergo treatment therapy, although there
is no use for it from this.
"To begin with," I suddenly began to speak again, but now, too early in the session,
"I always had bright and colorful dreams."
Every night, no exception, no matter how many hours I slept, even though I decided to take
a nap during the day, which I did quite often, by the way.
In them almost always there was some sort of plot with a sequence of events.
The good half, if not more, of course, looked great only in the dream itself, but in reality
it was only with difficulty that they showed something intelligible, while the rest was
valued by me in the weight of gold.
Having rummaged in them in memories after you wake up, real pleasure, as if recalling
your favorite film, but with your participation and also from the first person.
With nonsense, of course, in what dream can you do without them.
Sometimes I regret that I did not write them down in a notebook, so as to re-read them,
because so many stories and details are gradually forgotten.
And a series of events, from which everything went downhill, began with just such a dream,
which I do not remember so clearly, unfortunately, but the most important thing I can still draw
from memory.
I then slept on weekends, so that the plot in my dream was twisted, although then I remembered
putting it aside completely strange and full of nonsense.
And in this dream, at one point, I began to quickly escape from something.
From what, alas, is no longer remember, but it was at that moment that I sprang into the
yard during my sprint, jumping over the roofs of buildings.
In haste, then looking around, I saw in front of him an ordinary yard-well, albeit quite
a large one.
It was very different from the rest of the entourage of sleep, because there was absolutely
no one in it and, as it were, there was no constant movement and bustle, as often happens
in dreams.
Houses in this yard were both stone and wooden.
They looked multistory and very old, with the paint peeling here and there with paint
and faded from time to color.
Here and there trees grew, not inferior in height to houses, wide in girth, but in appearance
they already grew here more than fifty years exactly, with their shriveled and almost black
bark.
More my view then did not catch, as I immediately hurried from the chase, hopping back to the
roofs with one jump and escaping to where the eyes are looking.
"Ah, this dream," the doctor suddenly interrupted me, "is this the same dream that served as
a prediction of the death of your colleague?"
"No, I told you that I never dreamed of a prophetic dream," I said, slightly frowning.
"I did not attach much importance to this dream, you'll think, well, the yard and the
courtyard."
I recalled the generalization of all the old courtyards that I saw in my life.
Then again, when I once again cut the way back to work, I was surprised to note how
interesting in my dream individual houses or pieces from reality were taken and combined,
mixing.
In general, as I said, from other my dreams this was no different.
The second time this court dreamed me exactly one week later, again when I slept on the
weekend.
At first everything went well, in a dream I started to gather for a meeting, which,
in the end, began to be late.
I ran through the familiar streets of my city, which in a dream quirked, and suddenly I sucked
again into that yard.
At one point everything was bright and boiling with energy, and at another moment I was in
a gloomy and gray yard-well.
Even in a dream I froze for a couple of seconds, looking around.
Compared with the last time, everything became more monotonous and gray, or I just now got
a chance to see everything in more detail.
In it, as well as in that dream, there were such huge houses and gigantic trees.
But the houses were now not in the sense of multi-storey-large, but rather three-story
buildings, even two, but disproportionately greatly stretched in breadth and upward, which
caused giant gaps between the small windows in the form of bare walls.
Some buildings were wooden, some were stone, but they were all old, with peeling paint
and faded, large cubes towering and casting all their shadow.
The trees were black and almost dried up, with traces of leaves in leaves.
The grass is also dried up and dried.
Here and there small archs squeezed between the houses, bright spots leading to other
streets or courtyards, and linen ropes with dried clothes were stuck at least below, even
under the roof itself.
Somewhere in the middle of the yard was a children's playground, consisting of a rusty
swing and a small arc of gymnastics, which are usually on the playgrounds, and a bar
with a carpet hanging on it.
And, of course, here again there was not a single soul, except me.
This time I noticed that in the middle of this yard stood a wooden house, sideways and
blackened from time, with black windows looking directly at me.
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