I've been a bit ill lately. I don't think I've actually had a fever during the course of this illness, but at times I've felt a little feverish, if you know what I mean.
One night I had a fevered sort of light sleep--the kind where you're aware the whole time that you're lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, but you're engaged in some kind of intense mental task that just goes on and on. In the past I've had that kind of dream about moving enormous objects, or sorting information, or writing a paper. You know what kind of dream I'm talking about?
Usually such dreams are horrible. They're just awful, filled with anxiety and dread, and compulsion--because of course, something terrible will happen if I don't finish in time, but I don't have enough time, and it's not coming out right, and I'll never be finished, etc.
Well, this time the dream was actually quite pleasant. I had just finished reading Charles' Williams' novel, Descent Into Hell, that day. And so the dream was kind of about something from that book, and I don't remember now what it was, but it was wonderful--I had some kind of sorting and organizing task, but it was a labor of joy to me. When I woke up, a few hours before time to get up, I wanted to go back to the dream, it was so lovely.
Anyway, I thought that was really weird and surprising. I wish I remembered the dream better, but it was probably rather incoherent to begin with.