Ever since I was a very little kid my imagination has always been very strong, and very out of control. When I was four I would freak myself out so bad I couldn't sleep because I could see in my curtains a subliminal pattern of a ghost pirate and some sort of demon face. Honest stuff. Our bathroom tiles had (and still have, actually) a sort of light paint-spatter pattern. I can see Snoopy's head there, in profile, very small, and I can pick out a British Naval Officer's head there, too.
Yeah, I'm a freak.
I love having a powerful mind, but honestly, after the nights of the past week, I'd almost trade it in on a good used Ford Taurus.
If you understand dreams in any simplicity, you know that it's simply your mind sorting images, categorizing things, putting things away for long term storage, et al. If you've got a certain learnable skill you can even control your dreams to some extent. In my case, my dreams are often simply my mind telling my mind stories. I have lain in that half-awake sort of state we all get to and realised that my mind is simply carrying on the processes that I was using when I first crawled into bed--thinking about the next day's activities, thinking about what happened that day, or the previous week, and the natural flow doesn't stop when I fall asleep, it just loses most of the filters that cut in in daytime.
The past week I have had my deep night sleep riddled with profound nightmares. I cannot bring them to mind, which is odd, because usually I can remember most of my dreams pretty vibrantly, but these have done their very best to evade detection. Last night involved me running from some sort of monstrously huge all-controlling Big Brother that was ME, while having to stay near enough to...I don't know. It struck me upon waking as a sort of "Island of Dr. Moreau" meets "1984" with a dash of "The Eiger Sanction" and every sci-fi flick about a future prison where walking past a line made the collar around your neck explode.
What really gets my water up tho is the fact that I live them so vividly. When I wake up I always feel drained, like I had just finished running those miles and miles through fog and swamp and scum trying to avoid the murderous attentions of that Brobdingian me, that the tree-barked covered belt that could tighten enough to cut me in half at the waist was just now on me, and that my skin should still show the scrapes and blood where it rode, cutting me. Where is the pistol I carefully kept out of the mud and water, and where is the giant glass domes of that evil thing's hiding place.
Thanks, brain, for nothing.