I used to think dreams were a way of telling us the things that are lodged in our lives, subconsciously or consciously, generally masked by a symbol or motif that we have to piece together like a puzzle to figure out. But examining my dreams as of late, I'm left even more confused than ever.
A couple of months ago, I had a string of morbid dreams. By the time I woke up every morning, I had been raped, beaten up, killed, or abandoned in an alternate world. It was crazy. I did some research after a particularly brutal one that involved my strangulation by a person who shall go nameless, and I discovered that it could be interpreted as feeling that my emotions and life were out of my control. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was oddly accurate...
Last night, though...every color popped, the sky was vivid and massive, the wind blew my hair back, his eyes were drilling into mine, and my heart swelled. This dream wasn't scary, nor did it end in my untimely death. It was as if I was lucky enough to receive a dream that was perfectly suited to what I want, and for those brief hours of REM, the sleeping Brittany was living the dream.
And then, of course, I woke up. I had to. After all, I did have a French final at 8:00. As I groggily shut off my alarm and began brushing my teeth, I had to face reality. I started to define the lines between reality and dream-world and I wasn't thrilled with what I came up with.
The ideal dream is not so ideal in the end. Because it's just that. A dream. And it sort of changed my perspective on what dreams are really for. Maybe dreams are given to us as a break from reality, or to give some sort of message from deep within our souls. Or maybe they are just here to remind us of what we miss more than anything, in a place somewhere only we know.
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