Dreams

We are such stuff
as dreams are made on, and our little life
is rounded with a sleep.

-The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1

I am not some crazy mystic, but I believe dreams tell us things. We don’t listen to our subconscious enough. We don’t talk enough. We repress, hold things in, bottle it up, stuff it in our mouths, grind it in our sleep.

Why do we take emotions so seriously? Why is depression so hush-hush? Why can’t we call out our friends when they make bad decisions?

Why am I so afraid all the time? If I could pretend this life is a dream, and if I could lucid-dream this pretend-life, I’d do more than fly over my elementary school. I’d do stupid stuff. Like throw money on people. Put benches at every bus stop. Apologize to the people I’ve bullied. Meet people on the street. People out there are doing this, and I can only dream of it.

Jill Bolte Taylor wrote a book after recovering from a stroke which affected the left half of her brain. She couldn’t think analytical thoughts for five weeks. Without her left brain, all that she could experience was the feeling of her body, physically. She had a constant awareness of her self without any computing, analyzing, or thinking. She called it the most blissful silence she’d ever experience.

Those who meditate strive for this silence. It’s a detachment from one’s “life,” that big complicated thing we dream about every night. Do you ever wish you didn’t have to dream? I always dream I can’t see or can’t find my car. I’m always worried in those thought tangents.

Back when I was a fundamentalist, I dreamed I was fighting off demons. I also dreamed I was by a blossomed-tree that was losing all its pedals. I dreamed songs almost every night.

I wish I could turn my left brain off. For five seconds. And realize what my life really is.

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