I hate my dreams. I always dream about mundane, everyday things, like school or shopping, and it bothers me. If that’s the best my subconscious can come up with than what kind of life am I living?
Dreams are the freest form of thinking we have. Dreams take all your passing notions and make chaos out of order. All our barriers disappear to form something free. A writer sees a brilliant thought they wouldn’t have dared think during consciousness. An artist sees an unfathomable color. A musician hears music the likes of which no one’s heard before. It’s as if in your waking hours your thoughts are the alphabet. Straight, linear, and unwavering. Then, your dreams are the world’s greatest poem. The ordinary letters formed into something beautiful and insightful. In your dreams you can soar through the cosmos of words and colour. You are unbound from everything. Dreams are the link between us and our first ancestors. They are what you have in common with Hemmingway and Mozart. In our dreams, we are all artists.
So why are my dreams indistinguishable from a normal day? I hate knowing myself so well I can predict my dreams. I want to surprise myself with everything I say or do. Is everyday life so repetitive it’s being engraved into my psyche? I don’t want to have the kind of days that blur together when you look back on them. When I die, am I really going to look back and think, “Wow, I wish I had watched more episodes of “The Office”? I’m sick of just occupying myself. I want to live the kind of life that produces dreams in full colour.