My rather intricate story with dreams started off when I was a little munchkin. One morning at the age of 5, I woke up from a horrible dream crying and found my mum, still in her nightgown, sitting on the bedside looking worried. She was stroking my hair and with fear I looked through her eyes, a pair that were seemingly saying ‘it’s alright, it’s just a dream’. I remember so vividly how the warm tears felt on my cheeks, but the narrative behind the emotive dream I can scarcely recall. My easy suspicion revolves around angry dinosaurs and savage pirates, or some other cannily haunting characters, terrible graphics that aren’t very child-friendly.
As I grew older, dreams would come visit my sleep every now and then, in an irregular pattern. Some months I didn’t dream at all, some weeks I dreamt three nights in a row. I never awoke with weeping eyes anymore, but every dream always left me with these provocative marks. A man with balaclava holding a knife outside my garden; a car moving backwards crashing through glass; going on an endless road trip with strangers; or one of the most recent, being in a semi-bloody massacre of people I hardly know.
Violent they may seem in script, they are much less severe in dream-life. Also, I’m used to it. I remember how I always told my mum of every dream I had until I was around 16, but she never gave a rat’s ass about it so I figured then, why bother. One attitude I’m currently losing – I need to stop looking at those dream interpretation websites very soon. Or else.
Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.