Friday, 8 January 2010

Snippet - Perchance to Dream.

Perchance to dream...

Have you ever given serious consideration to the personal movie that plays in your mind during those precious hours in which you try and recharge? I’m talking about dreams. Not aspirations but more the sometimes scary, sometimes confusing and sometimes naked escapades of a sleeping subconscious. I dream, usually without fail, more often than not in colour and occasionally with my Emegulata.

I’ve always been an ‘active’ sleeper, my parents can lay testament to that. As a child I would sit up in bed, asleep with my eyes open, point at an invisible foe and scream like I was being abducted. They wouldn’t go in my room alone, who could blame them; all they needed was for my head to spin 360 and the transformation would be complete. I grew out of it. I now sleep with my eyes closed and I lay prone in bed but if anything my 40 winks visions are even more vivid. I can blushingly admit they are a lot more ‘fruitful’.

The meaning of my dreams has also developed with the growing of my bones. I own several books on the subject, have a bookmarked website and even a fellow colleague who seems to know a few things on why and what my sleeping self is trying to communicate to the wakeful one. Falling out teeth means I’m anxious, to dream in Fuchsia means I’m ready for a change and to dream about toilets without doors means I am frustrated about a lack of personal privacy. To dream all three means I’m screwed up just a little. Good stuff. Insightful but mostly fanciful nonsense that most would line up along side escapism.

Of course reoccurring dreams are the ones that speak to you the most. I like to be chased and find I can suddenly fly or spin so fast that I look like I should be in a telephone box wearing lycra and a personalised logo. I often fall down stairs, fail to dial my parents telephone number, eat fruit, kidnap Toby Stephens, play the piano with the ease and flair of Jamie Cullum and pine for an ex-love with a ferociousness that makes waking a hindrance. My dreams are often like episodes; I can wake but continue a dream when I once again dose or even, on rare occasions, continue during a different nights sleep entirely. I have themes, I often dream about the same person in varying situations over a span of several days and I have even been known to write poetry and prose. The notepad and pencil at the side of my bed have become my old friends over the years.

Dreams are often talked about in literature and songs. Hamlet had a perchance to dream, Martin Luther King JR told us all about his, more recently Susan Boyle dreamed about the ones gone by and of course the Mama’s and the Papa’s sang about Mr Armstrong’s Little Dream. To dream is as natural as to sleep and while we can not censure or ultimately control the content we can enjoy its randomness and fun. We can also feel that initial fright when the cute guy at work utters those immortal words ‘I had a dream about you last night’. Were you naked and I was feeding you strawberries? No? Never mind.

Philosophers see dreams as premonitions, a look into the future if only you took the time to filter through the crazy to the critical message. Part of me thinks, wow I could be a prophet, while the other half laughs and snorts with an unflattering animal sound. Take last night; I dreamt I was cooking on Celebrity Master Chef with a Jonas Brother and a Radio 1 DJ cheering me on from the audience. I’m going to cure world hunger and get famous doing it? Nah, I guess I was either hungry or in need of some melody fuelled entertainment.

Dreams I admit are just dreams brought on by bedtime snacks and too much TV but, hey, next time I dream I win the Euro millions maybe I’ll just go out and get myself that winning ticket.

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