No, not the Kylie Minogue song. Plenty of thoughts circle around my cerebral cortex at any given time, but one type of thought in particular has always fascinated me: dreams. I come upon this topic most likely because of last night’s saga of vivid dreams that left me wondering about their conclusions throughout the morning. Thats the thing about my nighttime wonderings: I rarely stumble upon a dream that concludes to my satisfaction. Its not that they have a bad ending per se, but rather no ending at all. I always wake up mid-reverie, leaving me wanting more. All too often I try to go back to sleep and revive the images and come up short, another dream squeaking its way into my subconciousness.
In a way, dreams freak me out. I mean, when I’m sleeping, when I’ve abandoned my efforts at keeping my eyelids open and given in to the pillow, I am somehow still thinking. Don’t get me wrong, I love thinking, and dreaming. But its a little odd that for once the thoughts act of their own accord, that a story can unfold without any concious control. The vividness of my dreams is sometimes so present that when the morning rolls around I actually believe what has happened to be true. I’ve been angry at a friend for a transgression committed deep in my dreams. Embarassing. I’ve also been subconciously dating very good looking characters, and been a little too devastated when I’ve realized that in actual fact Ewan McGregor has no idea who I am.
For someone who is as much of a control freak as I, the fact that a world (if imagined) keeps on spinning without being governed by concious and meditated thoughts is intriguing. I wish I understood why I dream the dreams I do, and that I could call upon that sense of mystique and creativity brought up in my dreams to serve me in every day life. I’d love to be able to write a story as fascinating as some of my dreams. I relish the thought of harnassing a dream and putting it on paper. Unfortunately, as I tend to remember only snippets and bits of my dreams, they would require a degree of doctoring to make any sense to anyone but me. Maybe that’s the beauty of dreams- they are like my own personal soap opera.