So, tell me, how many times have you had a friend or family member come up to you and say, “I had this really weird dream last night”? Is it only me whose eyes widen with fear of the possibility that they are going to go on and tell you how their “weird uncle was getting it on with a cat”? …I just got shivers down my spine … ew … and when I am faced with those types of stories, though they are ultimately entertaining, I am suddenly glad that I haven’t had a dream in months—at least one that I remember.
Don’t get me wrong, I do love a good dream. There is something comforting about letting your brain take control to pretty much tell you an unexpected (if sometimes somewhat twisted) bedtime story. Although I don’t know the psychological theories and facts behind the process of dreaming, I find it interesting to look into dream meanings on dream dictionary websites. These websites declare that those things we would see as quite mundane and unimportant are oru subconscious minds telling us something about ourselves that we don’t know—and maybe they are.
I remember one night, my friends and I were sitting around talking about dreams and how we put so much stock in the meaning behind specific symbols that feature in them. When play-by-plays of the dreams began, I got onto the online dream dictionaries. That night I found things out about my friends that I probably should see a therapist about … or maybe it’s them that need the therapist. Either way, I was laughing so hard by the end of it my stomach was aching.
Though it is more than possible that the symbols in dreams do mean something and that our subconscious is trying to tell us something important, I think we may be trying to analyse dreams a little too much. I view it like literature students analysing a book or a piece of writing—you can pull it apart and make meaning how ever you choose; sometimes the writer tried to implant that meaning in their work, but sometimes it’s just something they chose to write.
It’s easy for us, as a human race, to try and find meaning in anything. I do it a lot—perhaps too much. And sometimes the meaning we obtain from literature, film, music, dreams and other aspects of life makes perfect sense (at least to ourselves), but is it truly the factual or intentional meaning embedded in the thing we are pulling apart, or is it something that we create to make ourselves feel better?
I truly don’t know, but what I do know is that finding that meaning is fun. When I was a literature student, I had fun trying to find things that may not have actually been there. I liked paying unncessary attention to things that probably didn’t need it. I like researching symbols in dreams to give a purpose to a confusing and disjointed storyline in my head. And though the twisted and weird dreams have the potential to scare you so much that you don’t want to dream any more, the good ones—the ones that give you transient hope—make experiencing the former kind worthwhile. And that, my friends, is why I miss dreaming.
The night is filled with technicolour—a movie projected upon the inside of eyelids. What was once a graceful and calm pose, has now become something of disfigurement and disgust—drool dripping down a snoring face. The sheets become twisted around limbs and arms have spread wide, yet within the mind of this person deep in sleep, a story unfolds with flickering uncertainty.
No whys or wherefores are professed in this movie—perhaps it pays homage to David Lynch. But everything makes sense when you are in the moment with the rest of the world locked out.
She turns onto her stomach, uttering muttered phrases as she does so—she is so vulnerable, yet somehow untouchable.
Inside, she is having heated discussions with Benedict Cumberbatch about the propagation of herbs. She is winning, although she anticipates that Cumberbatch will turn the argument in his favour. Arguments were never her forte. But just as he reaches the prize-winning point, Richard Castle walks in with all signs pointing toward his awareness that it is he who is the most dapper in the room. He tells her that he needs help rescuing Tatiana Maslany. Of course, who else would he ask?
Whole worlds are accessible—worlds that contain our deepest desires. We can meet our favourite characters and celebrities. We can do the things that we can’t do when waking hours plague our minds. The world is most definitely what we make it and everything is a surprise.
And as she squints her eyes against the morning haze, she curses her transportation from fantasy to reality. She may never visit the world of Cumberbatch and Castle again. But she could visit more people, see more things, tonight. Perhaps that world could be better, more exciting, more dream. And all she needs is to endure twelve hours for that new world to be seen.