Dreams can(‘t) come true

I am often regaled with stories of dreams by others. In the past I was very much of the Dennis from Sunny mentality, in that if it doesn’t involve me and nobody’s having sex, I don’t care. But then, in recent years, I’ve sort of stopped remembering my dreams. Apart from the odd one here and there, maybe once a month or every two months, when I’ll have a really vivid dream, and angry one or a sad one usually. Then I remember. Usually though, I do not.

And since that’s been the case, I’ve found myself not hating hearing about the dreams of others. In fact, there’s almost some comfort in them telling me what inanity/insanity has gone through their subconscious the night before.

Naturally it’s always better if I’m in it or someone’s having sex, but I can stand to hear “and then I walked through the threshold BUT IT WAS A CAVE! Also I was a Jedi” and not want to vomit blood directly into the nasal passages of whoever it is regaling me with said coma-recollection.

I don’t want to guess why I’ve changed, but my C at GCSE psychology qualifies me to do so. So I will. I think I just miss dreaming, or at least remembering them. The dreams I do remember I don’t like – which is why I remember them, I suppose. It’s comforting to hear the daftness that comes out of the minds of others that they remember, and it gives me hope that one day I will start remembering the rubbish ones. Not just the ones where I literally wake up shaking with anger and spend the rest of the day in a genuinely bad mood because of something my brain has made up.

And yeah, brain – stop dreaming about the dog please. She died eight years ago. Stop trying to pretend she’s still alive, thus making me wake up unhappy. You fucking cunt.

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