Bad Dream 128 -- Morning of 11/2/20

I didn't write up this dream until 11/4, being caught up in "Open Doors" related stuff.  But as I was re-reading what I wrote, I realized it would be important to document what I've got written down here.

In my dream, I am writing an essay for some sort of exam.  I don't think there's anything to the exam except the essay.  I'm allowed to write it on any topic I choose.  And I understand that my success in writing the essay is important to me, both now and in my future.  

I am in a room sitting at one of those awful student desks.  And I am the only person taking the exam -- that is, writing an essay.  However, I am far from alone.

There are people constantly entering and leaving the room.  And it seems like most if not all of them are talking loudly, although none of them are paying any attention to me or what I'm doing.  Their constant chatter is causing me to lose concentration on trying to find the right topic.  I come up with topic after topic I might use, but realize that none of the ones I've though of would allow me to express my deeper feelings about the subject -- and that I need to find a subject that will allow this if I am to pass the exam.  

I know that if I find the right topic, I will get the traction I need to write an excellent essay, but the chatter around me just won't allow me to think clearly and deeply enough to proceed with writing the essay.  

I've written a few "starts and stops" in that ubiquitous little blue exam book, and I know that the person reading and grading the paper will understand that.  But when I turn the next page in the book, I see that I only have one half of a page left in the book.  Which is nowhere near enough space to write the essay I want/need to write...

WHAT DOES ALL THIS MEAN   

I didn't see this when I wrote up the dream the morning I had the dream, but it seems perfectly obvious now: it's all about me and my life.

The room I'm sitting in is the environs of my life -- and the essay is, of course, the story of my life.  I think about the various careers I've had, and about some of them were tough and unfortunate and others were a true gift and an absolute pleasure -- but none of them was really all about me.  So that explains all these people coming through my space, talking loudly, but not paying any attention to the real me.  

Not the full me.  So each of those people might have been one of the false starts on my essay. 

And coming to the end of the book -- with room for just a paragraph or two?  With no chance to write the essay that I might have written?  Yup.  Being 73 years old, that's how it feels.