I woke up this morning from very strange dreams. Two or three of them. I remember lying in bed, in the early dawn light, looking at the glow-in-the-dark layer I set onto the nail of my ringer finger yesterday and thinking about how interesting these dreams were. How they shifted from one circumstance to the next. How very much they must say about me and the things my subconscious is currently shifting.
Of course, when I woke for the day, sleeping through the dawning process to get up with the alarm – more truthfully, a short while after the alarm, when my partner woke me to tell me it had gone off – I had, of course, forgotten the dreams wholly. Left only with vague feelings and a few scattered images holding no great context or meaning.
An orange sweater, tattered at the edges and pilling. A grocery store with a ceiling of endless, vaulting clouds. Introducing people who went from strangers to old, long departed friends before I could finish reciting their names. The faces and forms shifting and rotating to match the new script, while I’m left watching, blinking dumbly and trying to keep up. Only to, a moment later, understand fully and loose track of the old.
It’s odd when dreams do that.
Of course, it’s the sort of thing I do to myself, during the day. I’ll be moving through random chores and events, not really thinking of much beyond the moments, only to plummet into writing a tale or a rhyme. I’ll shape each word, rearrange sentences and actions, and take the utmost care to repeat them. Only to move on a moment later and loose all but every third word.
Perhaps it’s less a function of dream and imagination, and more a function of something in the way I operate in particular.
I used to keep a notebook by my bed, so I could write down my dreams. When I was younger, many of my dreams would hold facets of premonition in them. Morphing what might or would happen within the nonsense of the whole. I like to keep track and look back over them and piece it all together. A puzzle of infinite pieces, shaped with lies, pretty pictures, and so many tiny truths, shining at the corners and between where the shapes interlock.
I had a journal by my bed for a while, over the winter, with a small pen clipped onto it, ready to use. I never touched it. Even now, my tablet sits near enough the bed, where it charges. Easily within reach, should I want to type something up to remember for later. Occasionally I’ll sit up to write a few lines of story before sleeping, trying to capture the essence of a tale, without loosing the night entirely. But when I wake in the night, I never write out the dreams that shook me. Instead I stay there, letting them hold me longer, curling them through the branches of my understanding and trying to see more through their tips. To understand more, to immerse myself and to remember more. Inevitably falling asleep again, full in their wake, and loosing them as my mind unravels to rest for a time.
Maybe I should try.
Do you record your dreams?