To Dream That Implausible Dream

There is no real scientific consensus on what dreaming is, so while there‘s confusion I’ll take this opportunity to throw my three cents in and when my theory is eventually proven to be the most incredible neurological insight of our time, I will be given the keys to the city. I dreamt I got them once, the keys to the city. When I asked if they got you into cool things like Town Hall or The Opera House, the Lord Mayor looked at me like I was an idiot and pointed at the fruit stand near Wynyard bus station.

Dreaming is not left over thoughts being chucked out. It’s not the back-up of short-term memory to long-term, no. People dream to keep the human realm in balance. You get up to stuff in your dreams that you can’t get up to in your real life and it keeps you sane. You also get to make some emotional book-ends on stuff that is otherwise horribly incomplete. The Grey Area Theory of Sleepy Bye-Byes Equilibrium or GATSBE for short. Let’s not muck around. Let’s call it ‘The Great GATSBE‘.

So having been seduced by the inescapable sense in what I am saying, I will hit you with a sad comparison. I have a much more interesting life than you. I make this revolting claim because it’s the only way I can feel better about my unconscious life. My dreamscape is just killing me. I’ve complained about this before when I blobbed that I had a dream about doing the washing-up. When you actually have to do the washing-up after dreaming it, that’s twice as boring. I have topped myself, though.

Emergency Contact lost her wallet in a three story, many roomed house, and we had to find it before we could go home. This is what I get up to in my dream life. I searched a house, in minute detail, looking for a red patent-leather wallet. It took for freakin’ ever and I was bored and annoyed. In my sleep, I was bored and annoyed. (E.C. wasn't very much help, either. She kept on getting distracted by wine and cheese.) This seems to be monstrously unfair. I don’t even do jigsaw puzzles because that’s just looking for lost stuff, yet my subconscious has seen fit to treat me to an hour long rendition of one of life’s medium sized butt-pains. Good one brain! What’s on for tonight? Hanging out an endless pile of identical black socks? Dusting the bookshelves in the national library? Counting sand in a dust storm?