Why Dreams aren't Boring

Crikey it's been a while since I last wrote to you dear reader, my apologies. This one is just short but I hope it will tide you over.

Today I'm going to talk about dreams. Now if you're of a certain type, or even in a certain mood you've probably just stiffened up and though "Oh god not a dream story". I know this because whenever you are with a group of people and someone says" I had a weird dream last night" about half the group are going to say (or at if you are British think and then not say) "not another boring dream story".

This really annoys me, and what annoys me more is that I have done it myself. Dream stories are often by equal parts, insightful, exciting, and hilarious. For example I have recently been rejoicing in the fact that a lot of my dreams start with film noire style title cards, resulting in the truly incredible "Hercule Poirot and the Rat King of Brooklyn" (I don't care to explain but the title was pretty accurate). Beyond the absurd I also find that dreams conjur up some of the most incredible imagery impossible, flying over endless oceans, pillars of fire, dark twisted visions of places you know. Finally they really are a window on the soul, giving us a glimpse into the subconcious mind, our fears and worries. A simple example of this is a dream I have whenever I face a deadline where I am constantly missing the school bus home and end up stuck there forever!

Because of this dreams are a huge inspiration to me whenever I try and write. I think its time we stopped getting bored at dreams and slapped down anyone who says they do, rejoice in dreams, write them down, try and work out what they mean, and share them with your friends. It can be a laugh and it can be very interesting.

I leave you with a dream I had last night, I think the meaning is pretty clear but I'd be interested to hear what you think.

Dream Fragment - They Are Selling the House I Grew Up In

It is late January now but the Christmas tree is still there,
Dead, Brown, Decaying,
The decorations smashed on the floor the lights flickering off,
They are selling the house I grew up in.

“I know I left but this is still my home” I say to the man,
Translucent, Ghostly, Faceless,
“We all move on” he hisses through invisible lips,
They are selling the house I grew up in.

“Give me my clothes!” I yell grabbing at a sheet to hide my
Nakedness, Loneliness, Fear,
“Your clothes are not here anymore” they all yell back,
They are selling the house I grew up in.