Not that anyone actually did anything to my Harry Potter books; they are still safely on my bookshelf. I had a dream last night that wasn’t quite a nightmare because it wasn’t scary, but it did rattle me emotionally. I guess it was more of a confusing and bad dream than a full blown nightmare.
I don’t remember much from it other than, for some reason, I was living in a large house with my family and shared a room with my friend. Aaand there was a group of old, devout Christian women living in the rooms upstairs (not that it’s a bad thing, I am a Christian, too). Why?
Because they wanted to be closer to Heaven. Because I have no idea, that’s why.
The room my friend and I shared was small and messy compared to the rest of the house. It was big enough for two twin sized beds at each wall with barely enough room for us to lay beside each other in the floor between the beds. And there were art supplies EVERYWHERE on the floor. Colored pencils, sketchbooks, gel pens, oil pastels, and even paint. I want to assume that most of these things were mine for coloring books considering she seems to prefer arting (spellcheck says that arting isn’t a word which is silly because it is definitely a real word) digitally. She was laying down, sketching an anthro (apparently anthro isn’t a real word either, but I’m still using it. SUCK IT, SPELLCHECK) poodle character she had apparently been wanting to use as a mascot for her art sales.
It reminded me that I wanted to show her something I made, so I sat next to her and turned on my tablet. Just as I entered the password, there were shouts and crashes coming from upstairs. My friend didn’t seem to hear it or care, and instead said she wanted to draw old cartoon characters as animals to see how they would turn out. I was beyond confused as to how she could ignore (or maybe not even hear) the noises, but I shrugged it aside and ran to see what was going on. That’s when I saw it.
My bookcase was laying at the bottom of the stairs, broken with my books barely surviving the fall. I started to pick everything up and getting the bookcase out of the way when I noticed something: All of my Harry Potter books, bookmarks, and buttons were gone. They weren’t on the floor, hanging off the shelves, or even laying on the steps. They were nowhere to be found, and I wanted to know why. I walked up the stairs, still picking up books as I went along. When I finally made it to the top of the stairs, I smelt smoke coming from the rooms that the women were staying in.
Just as I was about to knock on the door, a woman (who looked like Ethel from Parks and Recreation) opened the door and started screaming at me. More and more of the women ran behind her, all bickering and yelling about how they “took care of the book problems.” I didn’t understand what was going on, but having five or six little old ladies screaming at me after they destroyed my books and bookcase was enough to make my anxiety go through the roof. I panicked and slammed the door before running (and half-falling) down the stairs.
My immediate response to what happened was to tell my family about it so someone else could deal with the situation. Which would have been great if not for the fact that I couldn’t find any of my family. I looked in every room, still hearing the yelling from upstairs, but no one could be found. It wasn’t until I was about to give up and hide in my room that I nearly walked into my mom. I tried telling her about what happened, but she didn’t seem to care. She just told me to mind my elders and to behave (as if I was a child acting up). It frustrated me, but I didn’t say anything about it. Instead I took to my room to hide from the craziness.
I tried telling my friend about what happened, but she didn’t really seem to care. She just kept drawing and asking me to hand her the pencil sharpener and eraser. The yelling only got louder as I sat in my bed, almost in tears. It wasn’t like anything big or horrific was happening, but it was enough to have me wanting to scream and cry. It was enough for me to wake up while still feeling like I needed to scream and cry (and even confused as to why I wasn’t already).
But I didn’t, and I did manage to get back to sleep a little bit afterward. The dream afterward was still kind of weird, but not in the stressful and holy-shit-what-is-happening-I-need-to-hide way. It was about an old friend that I tried to contact suddenly. The weird part is that she replied to me in French. Yeah, dafuq, right? It confused me a little, but instead of asking her about it I started scrambling on my phone to send her the lyrics to Cindy Daniel’s song Sous Une Pluie D’étoiles. Not the English translation, no, the French lyrics. And she doesn’t even know French (I BARELY know any).
I don’t understand why she sent me something in French or especially why I chose to send her those lyrics, but dreams are meant to not make sense, right? And at least it wasn’t about screaming old ladies who burnt my Harry Potter books, RIGHT? Those questions aside, I think I know why I had these dreams (for the most part).
Before bed I was looking on Barnes & Noble for Harry Potter merchandise when I saw that there was a book about how Christians should deal with Harry Potter. I rolled my eyes and laughed about it for a moment. For the more emotional stuff, however, I think it was because I have recently started talking to a friend about things that have been on my mind for the past couple of weeks. It was nice to get it out and to talk with someone who has been through the same sort of situations (and have similar reactions to these situations) as me. The only thing is that instead of ignoring these things like usual, I am left thinking about them before bed after having ice cream and a shot of Buttery Nipple (don’t judge me).
All in all, it’s safe to say that my Harry Potter books are safe and sound.