I know what the impetus was. A play. It was an intellectually interesting enough exercise about love, desire, violence, loss, and, in a meta kind of way, about the creative (often tortured) act of writing. The focus on one theme in particular was designed to be deliberately uncomfortable and provocative. I understand all that. I told SK about it and she was surprised that I hadn't just walked out. I told her that I had wanted to leave. But as soon as I said the words, I realized they weren't true. I could have left, had I wanted to. And I would have left, had I wanted to. But this was "art" and was intended to provoke laughter, derision, titillation, sympathy, and discomfort. And that it succeeded in doing those things, was a good thing, from the perspective of all of those involved in putting it on stage.
And hell, putting certain things under the glare of stage lights, can give you back the power of choice - to turn away, to walk out, or to look directly at it. And regardless of what choice you make, it's YOURS to make.
But nonetheless, I expected the nightmare and am only surprised that it came a few days late.
Two interesting observations:
1. It faded immediately upon my waking.
2. It was blurry, and in third person. As if I were watching events unrelated to me unfold from behind a filmy curtain. Or as if someone had smeared vaseline on the camera lens.
Of course, when I told IC about my nightmare last night, her only comment was: "don't sociopaths think of themselves in third person?"