What Dreams May Come

Hamlet aside, my dreams are not giving me any pause. And that's sad. You know I've always enjoyed my dreams. I have always had very vivid, colorful dreams that had many layers of symbolism and very complex plots and subplots. Some dreams even featured "stunt casting" for some of the characters. (Sweeps week in my brain?) And the best part, whether it was a good dream or bad, was that I was never aware that I was dreaming. So it all felt so real, no matter how fantastical.

But lately, my dreams have been lacking. The metaphors are so simple, I don't even have a metaphor to describe them. And no storyline. Just disjointed vignettes. (Although I'm told this is how most people dream. That seems like a real letdown after the epic stories my brain has told me.)

But the worst part is that these dreams are boring. Even my nightmares--like last night when I found myself on a darkened street, alone, with six or more assailants closing in on me. I just felt like that situation was so predictable.

Of couse, this is my brain reminding me that, no matter how I might try to un-depress myself with faked positivity, it sees right through me. And it's not buying it.