BrokenJPG

A Copywriter’s Blog
Dreams

I don’t dream.

That’s a lie, of course. Everyone dreams. It’s just a question of whether or not you remember them.

When I was younger, I didn’t just remember my dreams, I ran them. I was (am?) what you call a lucid dreamer, able to control the flow of my dreams. I still recall a fantastic adventure I had with all four Ninja Turtles in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. Good times.

But when I was twelve or thirteen, I started getting night terrors. It wasn’t just that I would dream of scary things like falling, or spiders. Or falling into spiders. Or spiders falling on me. It was soul-curdling stuff, like fratricide. I remember one night where I must have been personally responsible for my brother’s death ten or twelve times. Even once I figured out it was a dream, even once I tried to control it, the best I could manage was one of those scenarios where I would push him out of the way of an oncoming train- and right off the edge of a cliff.

Kind of sucked.

I couldn’t stop the nightmares. So I did the next best thing. I stopped remembering them. I don’t know how. I just know that I never remember my dreams. If I try really hard, I can recall a flash of a dream here or there, but in general, I wake up without a single memory of whatever psychic gymnastics took place the night before. No memory, no bad feelings. Works out well.

Sometimes I wonder though. Pretty much every author I’ve ever liked cited their dreams as a source of inspiration. I’ve known people to solve programming problems, design logos, and even write blog posts in their sleep. And The Wife wakes up with some of the most ridiculous tales. So sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, what I’m missing, and how many stories and posts and novels remain unwritten because I’m too afraid to dream.

I wouldn’t mind hanging out with the Turtles again.

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