whenever i want to all i have to do is dream

“All human beings are also dream beings.
Dreaming ties all mankind together.”
– Jack Kerouac

“I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke.
Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly,
or
am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?”
– Zhuangzi

There were so many good quotes, I couldn’t pick just one. Luckily, blogs hold no boundaries, except for the fact that I can’t type HTML code to save my life.

Are you someone who dreams?  My mother is someone who never does.  When I was a child, they were impossibly ridiculous and made no sense, bordering the idea of a bad LSD trip.

(Not that I’ve ever partaken in drug use, or condone its usage, but keep reading and you’ll understand the comparison.)

Pilot (the lucky shit) dreams about (what else?) flying airplanes, confirmed by the airplane noises he makes in his sleep.

Understandably, those who newly share a roof have all types of quirks to learn about, and get used to, with each other.

Having said that…  You can imagine my surprise when I discovered I was sleeping next to an FA-18 Superhornet every night.

I eventually learned how to sleep again after a few short months.

Sigmund Freud said that dreams were repressed desires and emotions.  As much as I appreciate the theories Dr. Freud has provided for countless students of psychology to analyze for the rest of their lives, I have to disagree with ol’ Siggy here.

Personally, I don’t really give much significance to dreams. I’m a believer that dreams are an amalgamation of recent events in your life, things you’re worried about, people you’ve seen, etc.

As an adult, half of my dreams end up being either about my time at work from my Daily Life, or simply somewhat-normal conversations with people in/from my life, like living a second life in my sleep, then waking up bummed because now I have to “re-live” a normal day that was similar to my dreams.

The other half?  Well, sometimes the dreams are just about random, crazy stuff.

What about color?  I’ve heard that those who dream in color tend to be more creative, but I’ve never met anyone who dreams in black and white, (or for you Techies, grayscale).

Also Freud mentioned that dreams can be suppressed sexual desire.  Again, not to belittle the great Doc Siggy’s advice, I have to, again, discredit this theory.  (Also, gross!)  If this proves true, I think I’m screwed. Pun intended.

Case in point: When I was eight, during a time of little stress in my life, family was healthy, school was pretty good, etc., I dreamt about being chased by a puma through a grocery store, while I parkoured myself over the checkout stands to safety in the rafters of the building.  Basically spending the entire dream scared shitless.

Analyze that.

If dreams are about repressed sexual desires, then the dream I had about sitting at a school desk in an empty room realizing I’ve left my wallet in my locker has a much deeper meaning than me just being my normal (if somewhat forgetful) self.

Below are some interesting articles and websites dedicated to analyzing why we dream, dream interpretations, and the great theorists who studied this field.

As for me? I think I’ll just take a sleeping pill tonight.

What are you dreams typically like? Are they the ones you hear about in studies such as the ability to fly or some other superpower?  Are they somewhat like random drug trips? (Not that I have ever done drugs, but jus’ sayin’.) Are they typically happy, scary, depressing, etc.?

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 24: Write, in second person, a dream your character is having. Whether it be a nightmare or something happier, describe the dream in its entirety.

The dense fog not only engulfed the streets, it hid you from view. You were standing alone by the bus stop, waiting to be picked up. Main street was completely deserted except for the beacon of red your soft knit sweater gave off, its color cutting through the thick layer of emptiness.

After pulling up to you, you raised your eyebrow at me.

“It’s you,” you said.

Nodding in reply, then gesturing for you to climb in, you skeptically accepted the quiet offer of being driven home.

Not speaking for several seconds, your fingers played with the drawstring of your hoodie while gazing out the window. Taking in your soft brown hair, your faded, holey jeans.  You were wearing a pair of gray Converse sneakers.  Your old lime green backpack resting in your lap, no doubt holding two or three books that you always seemed to carry around.

“Why’d you come back?” you whispered at the window.

Turning the wheel, the car was placed on the side of the empty road. Turning to your face were the only three words that mattered. “I needed you.”

Recognizing a flash of pain you, narrowed your eyes, analyzing any slight tremor of my hand which never came, any faltering glance of my eye which never wavered, watchful of every potential emotion that might escape the blank stare I gave you.  Anything to try to catch any false meaning of those words.  You were dissatisfied with the truth.

“You neededme,” parroting, but giving an annoyed acknowledgement of the choice of words.

A slight nod and simple acknowledgement of “Yes” was all that could be offered.

You blew out a breath you apparently had been holding and stared at the condensation on the window.  After several heartbeats your face snapped back to my gaze.

“Where the hell have you been for the last year?  I haven’t seen you since graduation and now you decide to roll into town without so much as a phone call or postcard the entire time you were away?”

Tears appeared in your eyes, and it was every ounce of strength to not touch your face. You wouldn’t have wanted me to, even though it would have made you feel better.  Your voice was strained as you spat out the words as if they tasted sickly in your mouth as you said them.  “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, where you’ve been or who you’ve been with. I’m not sure I want to know or even care. All I do know is that you owe me an explanation, and that I don’t want to listen to it.”

You waited for a response.  You didn’t get one.  A heavy silence filled the space in the car as you stared at me.  Your hand raised up to strike me, catching you wrist, feeling your warm skin and your elevated pulse ricocheted under my fingers.  I kissed your fingertips, then took your face in my palms.  Pulling you close, we kissed. An angry kiss, all too painfully aware that although there was much to talk about, oh so much, we weren’t ready to face the truth. Sitting there, feeling you again, none of it mattered.  For the next few moments, everything would wait while I was holding you.

After.  Only after would you then be ready to hear, but not before.

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