“I’m having that dream again,” Ralph thought, “the one where I’m wandering so aimlessly.”
He could never figure out where he even was, whether it was Purgatory or maybe even Hell. All he knew was that whenever he had that dream he was always so bitterly inconsolably sad. By now he was accustomed to it-the bleak lonely terrain, the sense of helplessness and loss. Lately he’d been having the dream so frequently. At the same time his wife Mabel was making funeral arrangements with the undertaker.
I’ve never been able to stand Freud. He’s the type of character who appeals to the college-educated left. I don’t interpret dreams, or anything else, by any standard of his. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to remember any recent dreams I’ve had. Somehow, though, I can remember a dream that I frequently had several years ago. It was a dream during which I drove from Long Island to northeastern Pennsylvania and back on one very easy road. Anyone who’s taken that trip at least once knows that it’s a bit more complicated than that. A trip from Lindenhurst to Wyoming is quite a chore, even at its very best. With absolutely no trouble whatsoever it may take as little as three hours and fifteen minutes but it took an exceptionally short time in my dream. Considering that New York and northeastern Pennsylvania are the only two places in which I have ever lived the dream may have been making an attempt to tell me that my life isn’t quite as difficult and harrowing an experience as I often make it seem. Of course there’s always the equally believable chance that it’s saying my life is much more troubling than I think it is. The entire gist of the dream seems to be the fact that there’s quite a major difference between what appears to be happening and what is really transpiring.