To Dream, Perchance to Compose

I’m usually not one to remember my dreams, let alone recall them to all and sundry so that they may analyse me, scoff or lay claim to never having dreams… but last night I had one so vivid, it stayed in my mind, right up until I got into my brother's car.

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I was at the Final of a Grand Slam tennis tournament. Crowds cheered their never-ending gush of white noise as the players took their places on the courts. The surface was clay, the player’s feet flicking up dust as slowly moved in a back-and-forth dance of athleticism. I was at Roland Garros, yet the people around me were not French.

I marvelled at their ability to hit the ball cleanly and consistently (I’m an avid tennis player), the little yellow orb surgically passing the middle net at the same height.

People were staring at me, as though I was someone of import. People made way for me as I passed by, and big, dark security guards stepped aside with a knowing nod and smile in my direction. I could go anywhere.

I exchanged some pleasantries with prominent people – I identified these people as politicians and actors, although they didn’t represent any real life people in the tabloids. They were celebrities… that’s all that I knew about them.

I took my place, right next to a pretty blonde girl and her brunette friend. They knew who I was, but played it nonchalant. Their classy outfits suggested a privileged upbringing, and their faces were decidedly American. Their accents though, were Australian.

I was of the impression I was meeting these women for the first time. I didn’t associate them with any person I know in real life. They were “new”.

We made small talk. The blonde one in particular enamoured me. Whenever I got up to fetch a drink, I would peck her on the cheek and assure her I’d be “back soon”. Upon my return, I saw she was struggling for a good view of the tennis action, as the tension on court increased to snapping point.

The players were at a most important phase of the game. Their grunts and cries of jubilation at minor successes were like the trigger for sections of the crowd to cheer, the noise of supporters’ celebrations rushed down the stadium and into the court like water flowing down a mountain.

The blonde turned to me, a helpless look in her eye.

I walked to the very front row, sat down and gestured for her to join me. She brought her friend with her. We sat, watching the game for what seemed like a few seconds, and then she did something bizarre… because that’s what happens in dreams.

She started singing. This haunting tune that tickled the back of my neck, like spectral fingers brushing the fine hairs. I can’t remember the song, but in my dream, I felt I had heard it before.

People in the crowd turned to look at her, captured by the siren call of the song she was singing. I initially thought it a bit odd, and I leant away from her in an effort to disassociate myself from her.

Once she had finished, the crowd burst into applause.

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I wake up.

I walked around my unit in a bit of a daze. The tune replaying in my head, over and over again. The haunting melody, the feeling of a lone guitar strumming the minimalist notes, simultaneously strumming the hairs on my neck intrigued me.

I’ve never felt this odd following a dream. I’ve never really remembered many dreams, either.

The song played in my head until I started heading to work, and the noises of the real world washed it away.

I wish I knew how to write music, as I would’ve written it down. The lyrics I cannot remember but I knew they fitted with the music.

But the melody is gone now.

Damn.