Watch and Be Ready
A bank of ominous dark clouds glared at me from their place in the sky as I stood puzzled on the top of Southern’s trademark stony steps. Something was missing. Cars were still lined up in the parking lot, buildings still stood in place, and trees were still hunkered into the ground, but everyone had gone. The campus was empty.
I was alone.
I stopped for a moment and listened to the eerie silence, which was broken occasionally by the rustle of leaves in the wind. I felt like I was the brave protagonist who stays behind in one of those movies where everyone has evacuated a city due to some impending danger. This would be the calm before the storm – the moment when I whispered the clichéd phrase: “It’s quiet… too quiet…” The only thing I was missing now was a jaw-droppingly gorgeous female co-star who would chose to follow me into any form of danger, despite the fact that we’d probably only met a day or two earlier.
A cold breeze woke me out of my daydream, and I continued my journey down the lengthy steps, knowing full well that there were no fast-paced car chases or fiery explosions in my future. The only thing I had to look forward to was studying for hours under a dim light, hoping to get a head start on all the assignments yet to come.
From the moment I found out about fall break, I had planned to use it as a study period. Unfortunately, as everyone has figured out sometime or the other, things don’t always go according to plan. When my exploration of the deserted school had ended, I decided to check up on my friends before I got to work. I walked into their room and plainly stated that I was only staying for a few minutes. I left a little after midnight.
The next morning, I woke up determined to make up for the time I had lost the day before. I stuck my nose in a book, and got a decent amount of work done. Sometime around lunch, however, I got the deluded idea that I could visit my friends without getting stuck in their room again. As you can probably guess, history repeated itself.
This should be the end of the story. Yes, I procrastinated, but it was fun (as procrastination usually always is) and I didn’t have anything serious to do. The story could have ended here – should have ended here, but it didn’t. Unfortunately, the plot thickens. As I was hanging out with my friends in the room that was way too familiar to me by now, I remembered that I had gotten homework that was due on Monday. I was about to push the thought to the back of my mind when I remembered that I also had a quiz the same day. All of a sudden, everything that had to do with school came flooding back into my brain. I realized for the first time that I was way behind, and had I left right then and there, everything would have been fine.
Instead, I ensured myself that everything would be fine and decided that I should relax for one more night before I confined myself to my room. Alas, the plot gets even thicker. The next morning, I forgot all about the previous night’s realization and spent the better half of the day unknowingly procrastinating. I probably would not have remembered my massive workload if I hadn’t seen some guys in the dorm working on their own projects for the first time in days. Apparently, I’m not the only one who forgot.
Anyways, it’s just about time to cue the music and roll the credits. For all of you who engaged in skydiving, crocodile hunting, or any other dangerous activity during the break, it’s great to see you back in one piece. I hope you all enjoy what remains of the semester.
[Cue Music]
[Roll Credits]
During the 2010 General Conference, buses carried anyone who was interested to SAU where they would receive a tour of the campus. On the last day of tours, I climbed aboard a bus, more than a little glad that my mother and sister had boarded another. As I settled into my seat, the televisions on the bus turned on and Southern’s promotional videos began to play. In my excitement, I watched intently, soaking up every intriguing detail about the school I hoped to someday attend. Though every video brought new light to Southern, there was one that I found particularly interesting. Displayed on the screen were students who had taken time out of their busy schedules to share physical and spiritual bread with the homeless. As I watched the scene unfold on the screen, I remember thinking, “I want to do that.” Yesterday, more than a year later, I found myself on another bus, heading off to do what I had been motivated to do so much earlier.
The group Hungry 4 Jesus left for town on Saturday evening. As I watched the world wiz by through the bus’s window, I tried to picture what the next few hours would bring. I envisioned myself engaging in polite conversation as I handed out sandwiches to the people standing in the line. With that picture freshly painted in my mind, I hopped off the bus, armed with a case of water bottles, and took in my surroundings. Completely missing the sign the said that the building before me was a shelter, I wondered where all the people were. I followed the rest of the group a little ways down the street, where two or three people approached and collected a bagged lunch and a bottle of water.
Still baffled by the lack of people, I turned around, suddenly wondering where my friend Aaron had gone. As I searched, I heard someone behind me ask for water. When I turned back around to hand him the bottle, I was surprised to see a crowd of people surrounding the girls holding the food. Before I could react, I found myself engulfed in the same crowd of people who were now reaching for water. In about a minute, I was down to the last bottle of water. Amazed by how quickly all of our resources had been diminished, I tried to see how quickly the last water would be taken. I looked around for anyone in need of the precious liquid, only to find that everyone had disappeared just as quickly as they had shown up.
I glanced at one of the girls and shot her a look that said, “What do we do now?” She shrugged, a little unsure herself, and decided to talk to the man sitting on the steps near her, now happily munching away on a sandwich that probably consisted of veggie meat. I figured that I should do the same, but with no food on hand, I felt naked. My social skills have never been great. In a class of thirty, no one really noticed that I existed in high school until the end of my junior year. Trying not to let that be a defining factor in this situation, I looked for someone to talk to, only to find that I couldn’t bring myself to actually approach anyone.
Just seconds away from panicking, I spotted Aaron conversing with two guys as they ate from their bagged lunches. Overflowing with relief, I walked over and stood there. Though I never spoke a word, I was amazed at how easily Aaron had established a connection with the two men through football. The three of them spat out stats, formulated probabilities, and poked fun at each other’s favorite team. After the conversation had been stretched to its limit, Aaron and I started an extended conversation with another man by simply asking him about the weather. As we talked, I took notice of how we had shifted from weather to snow to travelling to music.
Soon enough, it was time to leave. On the ride back to campus, the group discussed the people that we had met and found that it was not difficult to slip into their position. Today’s economy can easily rob anyone of their hard earned income, but so can an addiction. We found that a lot of the people who lived in the shelter had addictions that had caused them to be where they were. One man, who came from a wealthy family, had landed himself in the shelter because of an alcohol addiction – an addiction that he desperately wanted to rid himself of. Others had fallen victim to misfortune. One man had found himself homeless after an injury to his leg that forced him to stop working. After examining the simple misfortunes that can befall anyone at any given time, we prayed a prayer of thanks and asked God to provide for our new friends.
Then we discussed more ways that we could help.
I think I set a world record. I got a grade so low on my psychology test, that my professor called it “statistically impossible.” Imagine getting back the test that you spent hours studying for, hoping to see an impressive grade, only to find a 13% scribbled in red ink. How would you feel? Angry? Depressed? Disgusted? Shameful? I’m actually really interested to know how anyone else would have reacted because frankly, I found it a bit humorous. Instead of shamefully sliding the graded test into the innermost region of my bag or angrily tossing it into a trash can, I showed it to the guy standing in front of me. When he saw it, he thought it was a joke, but upon examining the paper carefully, his disbelief turned into pity. The look of sympathy on his face was so sincere that I found I could hold back the truth no longer. I told him why I had failed.
I didn’t have a pencil. It’s that simple really. The absence of a yellow painted, number “2” bearing piece of wood with lead running through it wreaked havoc on my test score. The test was graded by a Scantron – which only read the writing of number 2 pencils – and I had completed it in pen. Up until I walked into the classroom on the day of the test, I had forgotten that a pencil was needed for this particular exam. Normally, the professor had a tray of extra pencils for those of us who forgot, but she was absent that day. I would have asked someone for a pencil, but I really didn’t want to bother anyone. Instead, I did the test in pen to the best of my ability, and handed it to the reader with a sad smile. I was expecting a zero on the test, but the Scantron decided that six of my answers looked enough like pencil lead to be marked correct.
During the class, the professor announced that she was going to drop our lowest test grades, which brought sighs of relief from all four corners of the classroom, but I couldn’t accept that. When class ended, I marched (walked) over to her desk boldly (timidly), slammed my fist down (waved politely), and demanded (asked) her to take a look at my paper. When I pointed out that the test had been done in pen, I think a look of relief crossed over her face. Apparently, my grade really was statistically impossible. So the story has a happy ending. Once it was rechecked, I found that I had actually done pretty well on the test, sliding my psychology grade that much closer to the desired A. I have another test this coming Monday that I intend to be ready for. I have the PowerPoint set up, I have scheduled extensive periods of time in which to study, and I’ve had a box of pencils sitting in my bag since the last test. This time, I will be totally prepared.
No word can describe this week quite as well as the word stressful can. I tried using the words tough, demanding, and enervating, which are beautiful words – all words are beautiful – but none can capture the essence of this week the way that stressful does.
So this week was stressful.
Why was it stressful? It could have been the massive load of homework I had to do, the numerous tests and quizzes I had to study for, or the all classes I had to run to. But this is college – everyone has to deal with that.
What actually made this week so stressful was my sudden shift in sleeping habits. I’m not quite sure how to say this, so I’m just going to say it: My bed is evil. I don’t mean Darth Vader evil; I mean spawn of the devil evil. When I wake up in the morning to get ready for class, the bed whispers, “You’ve got an hour. Go back to sleep.” If I wake up thirty minutes later, it coos, “Come on Myron. I know you’re still tired.” If I’m lucky enough to wake up a few minutes later, it wraps its sheets around me, envelops me with warmth, and purrs, “Just five more minutes – no one will know.” When I wake again, I find that I only have four minutes to get to class and make a mad dash, hoping to make it before the quiz starts.
Due to these circumstances, I haven’t slept in my bed all week. Nearly missing my English quiz was literally a wakeup call. Aside from accidentally falling asleep in one of my friend’s room and pulling an all-nighter to finish writing a paper, I’ve spent the week sleeping at my desk. It’s not so bad, really. I mean, I may wake up feeling like someone who hates me repeatedly stabbed me in the side of my neck with a blunt knife, but at least I wake up on time. Regardless of where I slept this week, I haven’t slept much at all. With all the homework to do and tests to study for, I haven’t gotten any more than four hours of sleep in one night.
On Friday, my roommate claimed to have woken up to find me sleeping ON TOP of my desk, which I didn’t believe until I realized that it explained why all of my books and my laptop were on the floor when I got up the morning. I had been so tired that I had forgotten all about climbing on top of my desk in an effort to escape the pain in my neck, while staying far from my bed’s evil clutches.
When I went to General Psychology later on that day, all I wanted to do was sleep. Interestingly enough, the chapter we were working on that day was entitled, “Mind, Consciousness, and Alternate States.” Basically, we were talking about sleep. While we discussed how much time should be spent sleeping a night, I began to feel a tad bit guilty, but I figured that some things, like sleep, had to be sacrificed for other things, like amazing grades. Then, Mrs. Teacher Lady (Dr. Karst) told us about something that really caught my attention. She told us about a condition called Fatal Familial Insomnia, which can prevent someone from ever sleeping. My initial thought was something along the lines of, “Awesome! That’s something every college student needs!” That was, of course, until I found out that those who suffered from this particular type of insomnia lingered in a zombie-like state, in which they were neither fully awake, nor fully asleep. As if that wasn’t bad enough, those with the condition would eventually die, proving that lack of sleep can kill. Honestly, I was flabbergasted. For the first time ever, I saw sleep as a privilege instead of a waste of time. Needless to say, I took full advantage of the newfound privilege that night as I dreamed for hours on a bed that was once thought to be evil.
We were lost.
Well, Aaron said that he simply didn’t know how to find the place we were going to, but if you ask me, that’s the same thing as being lost.
So we were lost.
It had been a long week, with its homework, essays, and exams, and going to Lookout Mountain with three other friends to close the Sabbath seemed like a great way to get away from everything. The four of us hopped into the car, prayed, blasted some Christian music, and were on our way.
Everything was going great until we actually got to the mountain. We knew there was a turn we were supposed to make somewhere to get to the hiking trail – we just couldn’t figure out where it was. For about forty minutes, we drove in circles. Eventually, we gave up the dream of going to Lookout Mountain, and settled for Rock City. As we were walking down the path, however, we began to hear party music. The music was then accompanied by two women, dressed in rather skimpy attire, who were smoking and drinking. We immediately turned around and went back to the car – this clearly wasn’t a good place to be.
We sat in silence for a moment or two, and then three of us opted to call it a day and head back to campus. Aaron, however, decided that he wasn’t ready to give up. We could have argued with him, but he had the keys. Whether we liked it or not, he was making all of the decisions. With that, we drove from house to house asking for directions. For people who lived so close to the hiking trail, it was surprising how little they knew about it. After a few “I don’t know”s and tragic misdirection from the girl with the dogs, we finally found someone who pointed us in the right direction to the trail.
As the sun began to set, the four of us got out of the car one final time and made our way down the hill warily. Just when I was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole hiking thing, I saw the rock. This particular rock jutted out from the rest of the mountain, giving us a heart-stopping view of the world miles beneath. Amazed and a bit frightened at the work of God’s hand, I stood a respectable distance from the edge (would now be a bad time to mention that I’m terribly afraid of heights?) and tried to take a mental picture. No digital camera could capture the majestic sight with enough detail to inspire such awe – at least none that I could afford.
The sun set and darkness began to fall as we read devotionals and revised scripture on the jutted rock. Soon enough, the stars lit the sky closer than they’ve ever been at Southern, and much, much brighter than they’ve ever been in New York. Eventually, the final devotion was read, that final prayer was said, and it was time to head back to campus. I took one last look at the stars and decided that the journey had been worth it. Catching up with the rest of the group, I tapped one of my friends and said, “I think I know what to write for my blog.”
I lifted my head off the wall and looked around the room drowsily. Clothes were piled sloppily on the iron board, shoes lay cluttered in the middle of the floor, and a chaotic heap of books and papers surrounded the laptop on the table before me. Everything in my room seemed to be in order. For some reason, however, I still felt as if something was different. I squinted at my bed, neatly made up by force of habit, and wondered for a moment why I wasn’t in it. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I turned on my computer to check my email, when I was confronted by something unbelievably frightening: Unfinished homework.
All of a sudden, the events from the previous night came flooding back. I had been working on my first essay for English Composition when I had the sudden urge to rest my head on the wall for a few minutes. A few minutes turned into a few hours, and I was left here – gaping in disbelief at the incomplete paper that was due in about an hour. After carefully surveying the essay, I let out a sigh of relief. The only thing left to write was the conclusion. “This isn’t going to be a problem,” I thought to myself. “We English majors know how to make words fly onto a paper.” I grinned, placed my fingers on the keyboard, closed my eyes, and waited for the words to fly. Nothing flew. I began to panic. Now was definitely not a good time to be hit with severe writers’ block. After discovering that pacing did not help my writing process, I sat in front of the laptop and stared at it intently, hoping that by some divine miracle, the paper would start typing itself, leaving me with A-worthy material – assuming, of course, that miracles came with good grammar and punctuation. As I stared at the blinking cursor, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t prayed. Bowing my head, I thanked God for a new day and asked him for a bit of assistance on my essay. Did the essay begin typing itself? No. Slowly and steadily, however, I was able to squeeze some words that made sense onto my paper. When I had finished, I smiled, leaned back in my chair, and began to relax.
Then I saw the time.
It was 8:29 – and class started at 9:00. I stiffened. I still had to print out my paper at the library and study for the quiz. In a single motion, I tossed on some clothes, stuffed whatever seemed important into my bag, and sped out the door, determined to keep running until I had the library in my sights.
I climbed up the stairs of McKee Library trying to catch my breath. I looked at my phone. 8:37. I was making good time. I jogged into the library and sat at the computer nearest to the door. Silently begging the computer to load faster, I printed my paper, took a moment to set it neatly in my folder, and dashed out the door. From McKee, I ran all the way across campus to Miller Hall. Arriving at the steps, I glanced at the time. 8:56. I smiled. I had made it with four minutes to spare. I opened the door to my class – only to find a set of students I had never seen before. I stared quietly at them for a few moments and a few of them stared back. After about five or six seconds, I slowly closed the door and walked away.
I was confused. What had happened? I mentally revised my schedule. Was I in the wrong building? Maybe I had – Then the truth slapped me across the face. My class started at 9:30. I could have gotten upset – I mean, I had every right to. I had just raced back and forth across campus for no reason. Instead of anger, however, I suddenly felt a peace that I couldn’t really understand. I began to realize how much I needed God on a daily basis. Sure, I know to call on Him for the big things, but He doesn’t want to be excluded from the little things. He wants to help me write three sentences for a conclusion, help me get to class on time, and help me survive a run across campus. What I’m realizing more and more is that He just wants to be there for us – whether we need help or not – simply because of His unconditional love. Chuckling lightly to myself, I whispered, “Thanks God,” sat on the floor, and started studying for my quiz.
I knew that I was going to get lost. It’s basic math, really. Freshman + Large Unfamiliar Campus x Absolutely No Sense of Direction = Lost Freshman. There was no point in trying to fight the inevitable – I was going to find myself staring at the words “poor freshman” scribbled on some upperclassman’s face as he or she directed me to my class on the opposite side of campus. So I prepared myself for the worst, and eventually, I did get lost… just not where I expected.
On one particularly hot day, I decided that I needed a shorter way to get into Talge and up to my dorm room. Coming from the Village Market, I spotted a door I hadn’t noticed before and chose it as my new entrance. As I reached for my card, a girl walked up from behind me, swiped her card, and held the door open for me with a smile. I thanked her and thought nothing more of it.
I began to walk down the hall slowly, searching for the staircase that would lead me up to my second floor room. As I passed the first room on the floor, I heard a girl’s laughter from behind the door. My eyes widened a bit and I stifled a chuckle as I assumed that some guy had invited a very “special” guest to his room. A few doors down, I heard the chatter of another girl, and began to wonder how many guys in this hall snuck girls into their rooms. I quickly dismissed the thought, figuring that it wasn’t any of my business.
After walking a little further down the hallway, I realized that I couldn’t find a staircase. I looked behind me to see if I might have passed it, when I heard a third girl comment on her suitcase from a room on the other side of the hall. I was about to throw my hands in the air as to say, “Really?” when everything began to piece itself together. A girl had opened the door, there was no staircase, and there seemed to be a female in every room. Then suddenly it dawned on me.
I was in the girls’ dorm – and I was the “special” guest!
Terribly embarrassed, I ran as quickly as I could to the door from which I had entered. I fumbled in my pocket for my card, whispering “Come on! Come on!” repeatedly. Triumphantly, I snatched the card from pocket’s clutches, and swiped it through the slot. A little red light appeared. The door wouldn’t budge. I swiped my card again, and again the little red light said, “No.” I groaned and leaned against the wall. Not only had I gotten lost in the girls’ dorm, but I had gotten locked in, as well.
My mind began to run wild. What would they do when they found me? They would probably think that I was “frolicking” with the ladies, and suspend – or worse, expel – me on the spot. Lost in my little world of self-woe, it was a while before I discovered that there was a young lady watching television in the recreation room. I gathered up what was left of my dignity and poked my head through the door. “Hi,” I waved. “Is it possible that you could help me with a small problem?”
During my few weeks here at Southern, I’ve come to accept the fact that I’m going to make mistakes. Strolling into the women’s residence of Talge Hall was only the first of many mistakes I have made so far, and the starting point for those I will make in the very near future. Slowly, I am beginning to welcome these mistakes because they teach lessons that are best learned the hard way. Some of these important lessons include, “Why it is important to read the syllabus” and “Why repeatedly hitting the snooze button is a bad idea,” while other more interesting lessons are, “Why you shouldn’t expect an umbrella from the 99 cents store to hold up against a hurricane-worthy rain storm,” "Why you shouldn’t schedule two classes that require vigorous physical activity on the same day,” and my personal favorite, “How to walk into a stall without dropping your glasses into the toilet.”
This year, I’m going to take it slow. I’m going to make some mistakes, learn some lessons, get lost, and maybe even accidentally walk into the girls’ dorm again. Whatever happens, for one year – for this one year – I’m just going to be a freshman.
I came to Southern because someone pointed.
It was the middle of my junior year of high school. While all of my friends were proudly broadcasting the nature of their future professions, I felt like a child struggling to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up. Daily frustrated by my lack of goals, the news that our school would be hosting a college fair didn’t do much to brighten my day. Surrounded by the excited chatter of my classmates, I entered the chapel where the fair was being held, expecting to leave just as confused as I had entered.
I had recently been playing around with the idea of being a journalist, so I decided to use that as my crutch. I figured that whenever a college representative asked me what my career plans were, I could smile and say something besides “I don’t know.” The strategy kept me moving for a while, but didn’t fully pay off until I came to the booth representing Atlantic Union College.
I braced myself to be lectured on all the reasons why I should attend this specific school, but was surprised when the representative said that AUC wasn’t the school for me. Instead, he told me that I should be focused on the school that best suited my career goals. Simply out of curiosity, I informed him of the future goals I had set for the day, and asked him which school I should be looking at. He told me that Southern had a great journalism program, and pointed in the direction of their booth. His point – a minuscule act that required little to no effort – had more of an impact on my future than he could have ever imagined.
It didn’t take much for me to fall in love with Southern. The campus was beautiful, the people looked friendly, and God was clearly in the midst. Convinced that Southern was for me, I left the fair excitedly repeating my newfound goals to myself. I found out soon enough, however, that as much as I loved this school, there was someone who didn’t – my mother. She had decided, without telling me, that I was going to stay in New York for my college years, and inevitably, for the rest of my life.
I tried to change her mind, but there was no reasoning with her – her decision was final. There was nothing I could do. I knew I would get scholarships from my school, but there was no way I could pay for four years of tuition on my own, and to apply for such a large loan felt like selling my soul to the devil. I decided that I would leave everything in God’s hands. I asked Him to change my mother’s mind if Southern was the school He wanted me to attend.
Months passed. Mother dearest threw school after school at me. CUNY. Stony Brook. Brooklyn. She even found a program that would have allowed me to go to Harvard if I applied, but none of these schools – not even Harvard – captured my interest. Eventually, and reluctantly, I settled for Hunter College. I tried to be positive about it, but the realization that I would be miserable keep creeping into my mind. No longer motivated to get massive amounts of scholarships, my grades began to slip, and for the first time ever, school, which I’ve always regarded as “fun”, seemed pointless.
The day that my mother informed me that her mind had changed wasn’t particularly special. There was no dramatic lead up or selective hints. On a normal day, she plainly stated that she would allow me to go to Southern. I felt something flutter inside of me and I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped. She had noticed my change in behavior and had put two and two together. As soon as the words had left her mouth and the shock wore off, I saw a whole world of possibilities open up before me – this truly was where God wanted me to be. A grin of gladness and relief plastered permanently on my face, I thanked Him with everything that was within me.
I came to Southern because someone pointed, and apparently, that someone was God.
“Myron, wake up,” my roommate, Edgar, called above the incessant beeping of my alarm.
I opened my eyes but said nothing.
“Dude, get up. Your alarm’s going off.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see Edgar standing about a foot from my bed, but I still refused to say a word.
Probably noticing the angry expression on my face, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
I looked at him for the first time, offended that he didn’t know what was wrong. “You just made me lose a whole bunch of money!”
Edgar was confused. “What? What did I do?”
“I bought four cell phones for forty dollars each by accident, and you lost them just when I was getting ready to return them!”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t –”
“Plus, you ate my arms!” I jumped out of my bed, still fuming, and viciously hit the alarm’s snooze button. Pulling myself into bed once more, I tossed Edgar an angry glare. “Why would you eat my arms?!”
Instead of waiting for an answer, I pulled my blanket over my head and went to back to sleep. Edgar later relayed to me the event that I could only faintly remember.
In case you haven’t already guessed, I talk in my sleep. Instead of mumbling unrecognizable words like my roommate, however, I interact with anyone within my proximity while in a half-dreaming, half-awake state. After an initial period of confusion, anyone who hears it finds it quite amusing.
Barely able to control his laughter, Edgar told me about the time I woke up seeking counsel on whether or not I should try to bribe a judge with a donut to get out of jail. He told me of another time that I had demanded that he stop throwing bombs at me. A few days ago, I fell asleep in one of my friend’s room, and when I awoke, he told me that I had asked him if he had released the bat that my sister caught from the net.
While I do enjoy the fact that my dreams can be a method of producing laughter, as of late, the sleep talking has become more frequent and the dreams more vivid.
On a particularly exhausting day this week, I decided to take a quick nap to replenish my energy. Upon closing my eyes, I became a rabbit running through mountain terrain, hoping to escape the hunters who wanted a small device that I was carrying. As I was looking behind me to see if any of the hunters were on my tail (literally), I tripped and fell halfway down a cliff that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Refusing to die by falling into the water below, I quickly grabbed a jutted rock and tried unsuccessfully to hoist myself up.
Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, a creature with an apple-shaped head and a face that resembled the cat from Alice in Wonderland looked over the side of cliff. I asked him to help me, but he insisted that rabbits were never harmed when they fell into the ocean. Seeing that I had no other option, I let go of the rock and watched in horror as the creature flashed me a devilish grin and informed me that he was lying.
After a few seconds of falling, I found myself engulfed in water and sinking fast. All of a sudden, I felt someone grab me and turn me around. Instead of my rescuer, I found myself face to face with a burly hunter who wrestled the device from my hand and tied me to a rock on the ocean’s floor. Unable to untie the knot or find some alternate method of escape, I panicked as my supply of oxygen ran out. I thrashed around for a few moments, knocking over the books on my desk, before I realized that I was awake and could breathe freely. Gasping for air, I wondered if anyone had ever died by drowning in their dreams.
In an effort to get the traumatizing effect of the dream out of my head, I decided to ride my bike around the greenway. Despite the distraction, I couldn’t help but think about all the dreams I had been having recently. It took me a few minutes to put together the pieces, but I finally found the source. The intensity of my dreams strengthened when I started getting more sleep. I started getting more sleep when I started getting more work done during the day. I started getting more work done during the day when I started making schedules.
Everything led back to my decision to start budgeting my time. It did have some negative effects – like the sudden decrease in time I spent with my friends – but it also had some positive effects – like an increase in efficiency and amount of time I got to sleep. When the number of hours I slept a night jumped from five to eight, it became easier to remember my dreams and become more involved in them.
At first, I saw this new ability to remember dreams as a curse, but I soon started to see the benefits. Mary Shelley, best known for her novel Frankenstein, first conceived the idea for the monster that many would soon come to love in a dream. After seeing the creation of Frankenstein's monster as she slept, she woke up and scribbled down what she saw in a dream journal that sat on a nightstand next to her bed. Her novel has survived the turbulence of time and is still popular today.
As an aspiring writer, does this mean that I am going to start keeping a dream journal? Of course it does. Maybe the next big hit will be a product of my dreams. Be on the lookout for an epic tale of a brave rabbit that holds the key to the survival of his people, a shocking analysis of the use of powdered pastries as bribery in the court system, and a spine-chilling horror story about the roommate who devours arms.