My brain has this weird habit of giving me dreams in which I am not the main character. It just crumples me up into a tiny ball of cons...

This is My Brain. This is My Brain on DREAMS. This is My Brain. This is My Brain on DREAMS.

This is My Brain. This is My Brain on DREAMS.

This is My Brain. This is My Brain on DREAMS.


My brain has this weird habit of giving me dreams in which I am not the main character. It just crumples me up into a tiny ball of consciousness and stuffs me into one of my dream character's heads. And that's on a good night. Other times, I'm this wispy, floating thing watching from above. It's a bit like the difference between being allowed to sit in the passenger seat or watching the road from a nearby tree.

Always the author, never the hero.

One of last night's dreams centered on a young woman who felt compelled to walk into a large fireplace the evening of a blind date. Not sure why. Maybe she just really hated blind dates. The fire startled her out of her stupor, and she fled to a nearby pond leaping into the water (with the requisite sizzling sound and cloud of steam, naturally).
Her date arrived just in time to see her stumble out of the pond . . . and turn into a small pig. But he was very understanding about it all, because she turned back into a human in time for them to make their dinner reservation.
The date went really well. I think those two crazy kids actually have a shot.

The following dream involved a middle-aged Japanese woman living in a dystopian society where everything is made out of an interlocking brick system not dissimilar to Lego. Her tyrannical boss sent her and her co-workers through life-threatening obstacle courses in search of a bright yellow coffee cup. The prize for the winner? The honor of fetching boss-lady's coffee for the next year.

I rode in the back of this poor woman's mind as she pulled off death-defying feat after death-defying feat, and finally found the much coveted yellow coffee cup hiding inside a plastic chicken. 

When I dream, I'm the amused spectator throwing metaphorical popcorn (like real popcorn - but extra salty and more meaningful) at the screen. And maybe that should bother me more than it does, but it's actually a special kind of fabulous. Because it feels like the dream equivalent of writing. Because if my brain, which on some level knows ALL THE THINGS, knows the writing part of me that deep? Then the writing part of me IS THAT DEEP.

And learning that about myself is more than worth taking a back seat for.


1 comment:

  1. and when it goes that deep, it's gotta mean you are a writer :)
    And a dang good one I might add

    ReplyDelete

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