My dreams are of water. And my nightmares.

The artist and poet Siouxsie Sioux, whose music carries both beauty and darkness, once said: “My dreams are of water. And my nightmares.” In these few words lies a world of meaning — a confession born not of weakness, but of vision. For water is both life and destruction, blessing and terror. It is the womb of creation and the flood of oblivion. To dream of it, and to fear it, is to recognize the twin currents that flow through all existence: the gentle tide that nourishes, and the storm that devours. Such is the paradox of the human heart — to find its peace and peril in the same depths.

Since the dawn of time, water has been the mirror of the soul. The ancients revered it as sacred — in the rivers of Babylon, the Nile, and the Ganges flowed not mere liquid, but divine essence. The Greeks spoke of Oceanus, the endless sea encircling the world, while the Hebrews told of the Spirit moving upon the face of the waters. In every culture, water has been a symbol of life, transformation, and mystery. It cleanses, but it also drowns. It reflects truth, yet hides infinite depth. Siouxsie, a voice of raw emotion and shadowed beauty, speaks as the ancients might: acknowledging that within the same element that gives her dreams also lies her fear.

To dream of water, then, is to dream of the unconscious — that vast, unseen sea beneath the waking mind. Psychologists have called it the realm of emotion, memory, and hidden desire. But the poets knew it first. When we dream of water, we are dreaming of ourselves — our loves, our longings, our griefs. And so when Siouxsie says that her nightmares too are made of water, she is confessing that the same emotional depth that inspires her art also threatens to consume her. She drinks from the same ocean that she fears to drown in. This is the condition of all souls who feel deeply — to find both salvation and suffering in the same source.

Consider the life of Virginia Woolf, who too was haunted by the element of water. In her novels, it flowed constantly — as river, rain, or tide — always symbolizing the ebb and surge of thought and being. Yet in her final hour, she walked into the River Ouse, surrendering herself to the very force that had filled her imagination. Her story is tragic, yes, but not without a strange peace. She lived as one attuned to the watery depths of feeling and creation, and though it destroyed her, it also gave the world her luminous art. Like Siouxsie, Woolf’s dreams and nightmares were one and the same — drawn from the infinite and merciless sea within.

So it is with all who create, and all who live with open hearts. For passion and pain are woven together; joy is inseparable from sorrow. The river that nourishes your soul is the same river that tests your strength. To love deeply is to risk loss; to dream greatly is to risk despair. Yet shall we then shut our hearts, fearing the flood? No — better to brave the storm than to die of thirst. Better to know both the calm and the tempest than to drift in shallow safety. The wise do not flee their nightmares; they learn to swim through them.

Thus, Siouxsie’s words are not a lament but a revelation. She reminds us that the things which frighten us most often dwell in the same waters that sustain us. The soul’s ocean is not divided into good and evil, light and dark — it is one continuous, living current. We cannot choose the tide; we can only learn to ride it. Water teaches us surrender, resilience, and renewal. It flows where it will, shaping mountains and wearing away stone, yet always finding its way home to the sea. So too must we allow our experiences — even our fears — to shape us, soften us, and carry us toward wisdom.

Let the lesson, then, be this: Do not curse the waters of your life, even when they rise against you. They are your teacher and your trial, your dream and your dread. To live fully is to stand at the edge of the unknown, to feel both awe and terror, and still to wade in. When the dark tides of sorrow come, remember that they are made of the same substance as your joy. Swim bravely, breathe deeply, and trust that even in your nightmares, you are still moving toward the light. For in the end, all our waters — clear or stormy — flow into the same eternal sea.