I mean really. What is the point? I know all the bull hockey pucky about “working out subconscious blah blah junk” while blissfully asleep. Yada Yada. Psychological gibberish.
I have yet to have a dream that illuminated anything for me, other than that I would rather just not have them. Freud be damned, full speed ahead. (oops, torpedoes?)
My dreams suck. Always have. And I have dream patterns. And they suck worse. Always have.
Okay, I used to have a dream where I was endangered by a bull, and couldn’t walk, and could only crawl literally by pulling myself along by my fingertips. I still have them, although there is no observable danger, but I’m trying to go fast, and I’m walking through glue. Frustrating.
Another is waking up late and I’m late for a final exam that I haven’t studied for, and when I’m walking down the hall, I’m increasingly naked. Oh and my teeth often fall out. (I don’t have that one much any more, since I got pretty stern with my self (inside self) demanding a cessation when I’m not in FREAKIN’ school any more!
Every sex dream I’ve ever had has always been in the end frustrated. Now what’s that all about? It’s particularly bad when the man in question is a hot throbbing entertainment figure. We are always interrupted by somebody just as things are getting good, and we can never find a place of solitude after that.
Johnny Depp is NEVER in my dreams, and that sucks.
My most curious dream is where I lose my car in some parking lot, and when I finally find it, realize I’ve left my purse somewhere and I try to hurry back to find it, and of course, the glue again.
Or, as I’m heading for a destination, all the sudden things get more and more complicated and I lose my way, and I’m going through buildings and can’t find exits. And then I gotta pee, and I find a bathroom, which is a mess, but I go, but before I even get out the door, I gotta pee again. And again. And again.
You can figure this one out. Even I can, and I do, and I wake up, and I scurry to the bathroom, and well, that is about as prophetic a dream as I can get.
No Abraham “here I am” from me. No dreams of mystical revelation for this kiddo, no siree.
There are no lovely grass shacks on to-die-for tropical islands, no perfect bikini body for me, no Adonis in a thong to swoon for, no president asking me, “Sherry, I need you expertise on this one, the world is at stake!”
No, just frustration after frustration.
Worse, oh so much worse, are those barely recalled ones. The ones that in the first instance of consciousness you recall, but it slips away so fast that all you are left with is an uneasiness that you can’t identify but something was going wrong in that dream. You were sad, or vaguely scared, or outraged, or witnessing the beginning of Armageddon? I don’t recall, as I said. Unsettling and I don’t like that!
A glass and a half of wine later, sitting in the living, and Ive finally managed to let go of the creepy feeling. I stumble off to bed at a nice 3 am, and hope to sleep.
Am I getting my point across? I don’t like dreams. Thank you very much, but NO THANK YOU. I can DAYdream and I do that very very well. I am fine with that.
But no, I have actual brain matter in my noggin’. And it works just fine, without all this subconsciousy psycho babble.
As far as I can see, the “other” me I meet in my dreams, bears little resemblance to me anyway. She’s addled if you ask me. She is forever forgettin’ stuff and has a body that doesn’t move well, and doesn’t get much pleasure. That’s not me!
The Contrarian, suffering from a “swimmer’s ear” this morning, thinks God was kinda loose with the design stuff. “I nice blow hole on the top of my head would have been a blessing,” he suggests. While I’m not sure of his design capabilities, the Contrarian’s that is, I’ve certainly come to agree that all this dream nonsense is a waste of time and often sets a bad tone for the day.
He could easily have kept the dreams and given us a bit more grey matter. George Dubya would be the first to agree with that, if he could think that deeply, which he can’t so it’s all pretty much moot.