Dreams…

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Oh, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you…

The sour taste of a dark dream was still upon me when I woke. It wasn’t so terribly bad, but it was not the thing that I wanted to savour on a Sunday morning.

That got me to thinking about the good dreams that I have had. And when I got to thinking this I wondered what those good dreams had been. The memories of good dreams did not flood over me. The fact is that I cannot remember any of the good ones whereas the bad ones did linger.

Why is this? And is it only me?

Some current theories suggest that dreaming is:

  • A component and form of memory processing, aiding in the consolidation of learningand short-term memory to long-term memory storage.
  • An extension of waking consciousness, reflecting the experiences of waking life.
  • A means by which the mind works through difficult, complicated, unsettling thoughts, emotions, and experiences, to achieve psychological and emotional balance.
  • The brain responding to biochemical changes and electrical impulses that occur during sleep.
  • A form of consciousness that unites past, present and future in processing information from the first two, and preparing for the third.
  • A protective act by the brain to prepare itself to face threats, dangers and challenges.

Some of the best dreams that I have had have been ones that helped me write. When I was writing the second book of The Piper, I would go to bed thinking of the way in which I could further the narrative. The characters became solid and more dependable. They took on their own volition and helped my next journey into writing as a result. My mind was then working for me rather than against me. I suppose that it had to rebel at some stage.

So, my dreams were pragmatic solutions to my writing endeavours. Prior to that, they had been escapes from the everyday problems and pressures of life. When my burnout finally arrived in all of its ‘scorched earth’ approach, the dreams stopped coming. Sleep stopped coming. Hope was long gone. But these were only my dreams, the subconscious workings of an overly tired mind.

When people talk about dreams now, they seem to talk about some type of shared dream of success and fulfilment. I could stand corrected, but these are not dreams, they are wishes. I wish I was rich. I wish I was a writer. I wish upon a star. Wishy-washy thinking?

Just what if one’s dream is to be dreaming? I suppose they call that one madness.

I spoke to a friend this morning who has gone through a terrible time during this last five years. He had a dream (wish) to become a property developer. he thought he had it made. he thought he had found the magic formula. Then, he found life. the warty life  that waits for us all when we have been dreaming too long. His dream became a nightmare. It was a waking nightmare that provided the ‘double-tap’ of not being dead because it already was. Regardless of how much pain he has been through in these past years, he still holds onto the dream as if holding on to it will help it to materialise. It’s like walking father and further into a desert in the vain hope of finding an oasis.

The truth is that the oasis wasn’t there. It was a tale told by those who wanted to encourage people to strike out and to find something, anything, or just to keep them dreaming. 

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I told him, “Don’t trust dreams because they lie.”

 

 

 

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