The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

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I had a pair of fairly disturbing dreams last night, one close to morning that woke me up.

It’s interesting how the brain can remember people you haven’t seen or thought of since you were a kid — one of the dreams was about a kid from the street I grew up on, and the kid didn’t live there long. The other dream was an assortment of oddities that didn’t make much sense in the dream and make less now. Both of them were rotten.

Writing this now, I’ve remembered another dream I had a long time ago — maybe when I was ten years old. It was also disturbing and kind of related to the ones last night, which makes me wonder — how often do I actually have dreams that connect to other ones? If I had to guess I’d say not often, and when I do, it always seems to be some sort of nightmare. My bad dreams tend to be related: I’m late for something (a test, work, a meeting) by a fair margin. I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be doing something I shouldn’t be (public, naked; flying, free and out of control; drowning).

Perhaps it reflects on how good life is that only the bad, implausible dreams stick out. I know I’ve had good dreams, but they don’t seem like much to remember.

Dreams mostly seem to be made of memories and fears, with a healthy dose of theater of the absurd thrown in. Despite all that it almost never occurs to me that something is a dream.

The one time it did was something else: given, it was a bad dream. It was one of those dreams about an evil person who was unstoppable, one where I was running through knee-deep slowness and unable to get away. Somehow in the dream I realized it was, and annihilated the Clayface-like monster person coming after me.

Anyway, that’s today’s rant.