It’s been said that there is little more boring than having someone tell you their dreams. Even if a few of my blog readers might be employed in the psychiatric field, I won’t be testing that theory in this post.
Generally speaking, it’s not a concern relatives, friends or readers should ever have with me, since I rarely remember any of my dreams.
Sure, occasionally when I’m in that “halfway there” period (halfway asleep or halfway awake), I may be jerked aware and have some momentary recall of my fevered mind. Unless I write the thoughts down right away, they most often fade within minutes (or, at most, hours).
Daydreaming is another concept entirely, using mostly conscious control (if not direction) in conjuring up ideas. That’s usually where I get my story concepts from.
About the only thing that ever sticks with me from my dreams is when it revolves around one of my “biggie” fears. If I were being suffocated by roaches, for example, I would remember that when I woke up (much as I would prefer not to).
So, if that dream from a few days ago with me high in the air without visible support lingers with me, it’s only because of my strong fear of heights (free-fall, as opposed to inside an airplane). For that dream, all its trappings (and they were insanely weird) are still surprisingly fresh in my head.
But I’m not going to risk boring you with the details, even for such bizarre strangeness that exists in the height of my dreaming.