Our dreams, our Minotaurs: I should just get a diary and leave it at that . . .

One thing that I learned early in life: sharing your dreams only bore or anger your audience who are tired to fake interests, while analyzing one of your own is forever intriguing.

That is, as long as one can remember one's dreams once awake, which is a suspect under the best of times unless one is a prophet, visionary, oracle, or it concerns whatever prophecy child/hero/heroine lead by someone else's dreams, in which case such tedious earthbound inspections--themselves quite arbitrary and subjective in where they obsess--don't apply anyway.

In most our cases, however, the dream yarn we try to hold onto in order to peek back at the labyrinthine path we left behind just a moment ago--or perhaps hours ago--is an illusive glimmer in the rapidly deepening dark where dreams return, never really taking us back to our Minotaur: the child of our desires and fears.
We might feel compelled to hide our semidivinebeastchildmonster deep in the labyrinth, but we'll keep feeding it if it obliterated a whole generation of tender youth. What's next generation anyway if only our desires and fears keep us going forever, immortalizing us?

Privately, however, I would hate to be left in the maze or haze or daze or wherever my mind keeps those nightmares at bay.
I have enough brought back from my nightmare to fend off as it is. Although the creature/monster that was a mix of. . . hmm. . .moth, rxxch, and jellyfish was somewhat impressive if MASSIVELY frightening, and massive it had been.
Appearing out of nowhere in the living room where I was listening to my brother and his wife getting ready for the morning, fluttering past somewhere in my vicinity across the room to briefly make a huge hanging from the ceiling behind the newly weds, only to weave its way straight back towards me even as I tried to warn them of its presence.
The thing seemed to wade like the air thickened around it, or it was in the ocean deep. Its black and white tattered ribbons of tendril fluttering and stretching with elasticity even more alarming than its sheer size that by then overwhelmed my field of vision, cutting off all else, including the sound. It was like the solidifying effect followed its trail to encompass my share of air, suffocating me as it approached.
I know it's coming, straight ahead if not counting that fluttering weaving move, and it's right there in front of me, and it's huge enough to hit or push away, even with my coordination, but still I'm already suffocating, tasting phosphorous powder off its moth-like wings peeking beyond the tendrils, can't move or even scream or breathe without welcoming even more of those bittersharp powder. . . Its tendrils slime my sides and arms--
and I woke up flailing around my arms, unsettled and exhausted.
It's a theme of my life. I know it's there, can see it sharp and clear all the while it approaches towards me, then at the critical moment, it's just too close to fend off, overwhelming my vision so totally that there's nothing to see any more. It would be simply laughable and humiliating if only all that I (not) come to face to face with were a dodgeball thrown at me during a P.E. class by our swim team captain. (Let's just say I couldn't quite decide which way to duck when it was so obviously inevitably directly coming at me.)
Knowing it's there, feeling its debilitating effect, and suffocating on its nearness, yet all the same, no coming face to face with it until it's too late and there's no "I" to even acknowledge the fact.
Feed your Minotaur regularly or at least pay respect to it ritually, and it won't need to stray out all starving and vengeful into your waking hours?