Seven nights in a row I’ve dreamed about my old job at the newspaper, not with the most recent owner, but the one I worked for twenty-five years prior to that.
Not exactly a nightmare, although filled with the usual
trepidation, the weekly and sometimes daily deadline hovering over me.
My dreams usually have the same overall landscape, a world
that roughly corresponds to places I actually lived or worked. With this latest
series, the landscape altered somewhat.
I won’t confess to any questionable trysts, though REM sleep
always brings its share of those as well. Yet, these dreams recollected some of
what I felt when the owner of our paper used to spy on me, checking the computers
where I worked as if looking for evidence of a crime.
I rarely used work a computer for anything but work. If I wrote
anything private, I did so long hand into hardcovered notebooks that I carried
with me in my bag or my car.
These recent dreams had the same feeling I got when in
reality I came to work to find my boss sitting at my terminal or got word from
the other office that he had been snooping in my terminal there.
In waking, I lost most of the thread of these dreams, only
that he expected something of me or suspected something about me, which in
reality or dreamland, he could not prove.
Why I am saddled with these dreams these days after nearly a
decade since he sold off the business and moved up state New York, I can’t say.
Perhaps the godawful work environment still haunts me even
now when I have a much better boss and a less stressful job. Something remains
unresolved, something I suspect never will be.
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