I’ve been aware that I’ve been having dreams lately, not like Martin Luther King, but while I’m sleeping, and I don’t like it. I can’t remember most of them, which is frustrating in itself, but I woke up pissed off about something that happened in my dream, and I can’t remember what it was.
The other night, I dreamt that we had four horses whose hooves had been damaged by our cats. The horses were in their stable waiting for a farrier. All the while, our cats were running around rubbing themselves against the horses’ hooves and damaging them further. They weren’t even crunching on the keratin.
If before now I was dreaming, I’m glad I didn’t know. It’s too much activity throughout the night, especially because I have enough trouble with sleep.
The things that I daydream about are great. I enjoy spending time with those thoughts, getting lost in them. Those dreams are palpable. I can do something with them if I want to. I often forget these, too, but there’s a better chance that I’ll be able to write something down to remind me later.
I’ve been doing a fair bit of daydreaming lately, also. It’s nice to get away for a little while without having to go anywhere.
You know, I felt the same way while reading on the subway. I nearly missed my stop. Even with the music playing on my headphones, I was taken away by David Sedaris’ Happy-Go-Lucky. I understand his humour and enjoy his writing style. His personal essays inspire me to want to write more.
Writing used to take me away, too. I miss it. Perhaps that’s why I’m dreaming more. Could it be that all of what I used to process with a pen and paper is now being pushed through a garlic press in my brain? Is the goo that oozes out a jumble of disjointed, but still relatable, ideas?