I dream. I dream a lot. I dream too much. You say there is no such thing? Au contraire, mon frere. There is. I do it. I do not like it. I would rather not dream at all.
Choolie’s husband, whom I will call Kojak, is a lucid dreamer. He has been for many years. Choolie brought it up to me and suggested that I read a book about it and talk to Kojak about it. I had trepidations about it for many reasons–some I could name, and some more nebulous.
The easy reason for my fear: I have OCD. Duh, I can hear you think. You’re not telling us anything new, Hong! Hear me out. Because I’m OCD, I throw myself into any passion with a fervor approaching zeal. When I used to scry, I did it for hours at a time. When I was in the thick of my ED issues, all I could think about was food, dieting, exercising, and how many inches/pounds I was losing. If I were to try to lucid dream, I was afraid I would never stop.
Another easy reason: I have been enamored of otherwords for some time. One time during bodywork, voices called for me to join them. I started walking towards them, and I was crushed when my bodyworker called me back to earth. That was many years ago. I have resigned myself to living on this earth for now, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I am afraid that if I start lucid dreaming, I’ll never want to be awake again. Kojak told me that you can do anything you want in lucid dreaming. You can manipulate anything and everything. It’s only a dream, right? I told him he must not have been raised Christian because I instinctively flinched at the idea of manipulating everything, even in my dreams, even though I haven’t been Christian for a very long time.
I’ve had it. This sleep thing is bringing me to my knees. When I’m not staring at the inside of my mask and counting the seconds ticking by, I’m having dreams that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I tried to count (black) sheep last night, thanks to the suggestion of Redshirt over at BJ, but they kept breaking out into song–specifically, Thriller by Michael Jackson, complete with choreography. The sheep looked like they came from the Wallace & Gromit series, or from the stupid Serta commercials. Yes, it was good for a chuckle and a groan, but not exactly conducive to sleep.
It is funny, to me, anyway, that I am blogging about sleep rather than actually trying to sleep. As I have documented in the past, I have a very rocky history with Lord Morpheus. In fact, I have written a novel about it, including many of my more outre dreams in the three-hundred page epic. Once I am satisfied with the ending, I am going to approach Vertigo to see if I can publish my novel somehow, maybe as a graphic novel. Yes, I used Morpheus (Dream) and his six brothers and sisters as main characters in my novel. Not a good idea in retrospect, perhaps, but it was needed at the time. If you have no idea what the hell I was just saying, go to Google and look up Neil Gaiman and Sandman. Then, you shall know everything.
This is MY brain, and you’re only peeking into it. As I have blogged about before, I dream a lot. I remember at least one dream a night, and my dreams are, with very few exceptions, nightmares. Last night’s dream was no exception, but it was a strange sort of nightmare. Therefore, I am going to relate it here. Take a plunge into my very fertile subconscience.*
I hate sleep. But, Minna, I can hear you protest–ok, no, I can’t, but let’s pretend–why would you hate something that is so good for you? It’s relaxing and rejuvenating and other re words I don’t care to list. Refreshing! That’s often said about sleep as well. Malarkey, I say. If I could get away with it, I wouldn’t sleep at all. Why? Well, I’ll tell you.