I had a frustrating, bizarre dream last night that woke me up paralyzed. I was a heavyweight fighter in a world championship fight in a huge, packed arena. The dream opened as clear and as rich in color and technical production as any movie I have seen.
The first shot moved in tight on me and my opponent that I had pinned tightly against the ropes. My body glistened with sweat and beautiful, muscular definition. my opponent was a shadowy figure but was obviously an exact duplicate of me; however, in the dream, I couldn’t see that, to me, he looked sardonic and grizzled.
I was shoving my opponent, (myself) and glaring into his eyes; muscling him around on the ropes to create an opening where I could give him a hard headshot to knock him out but when I’d swing to take him down the punch was stopped just before it landed; punches from the right and the left that would flatten this shadowy figure of me were caught up, seized up short of their mark because he wouldn’t defend himself and something wouldn’t let me hit him, he just wouldn’t fight back. I was franticly flailing against him in vain while he just leered at me, his gloved hands hanging mockingly by his side, his defiant jaw and eyes jutting out at me in contempt. I sweated and flailed harder and harder with no effect until the bell rang.
I stomped to my corner and sat muttering, “This is the last round, I’ve got to hit him, really let go and destroy this asshole. He’s not beating me, he’s psyching me out, landing all his rebukes and condemnations on me; this is the last round; I’ve got to win, I’ve got to win.”
When I stood up and stepped toward the center of the ring, I woke up. He was gone but the message remained.