Skip to main content

Dream Identity



“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

 Edgar Allan Poe

I'd say in about one third of the dreams I remember, I'm somebody else in the dream. Like, I'm in their body, I know who they are and it feels totally normal... and it's not me. For reference, I'm 60 years old. In my dreams, I've been men and women of all different ages, races, etc. This is just a normal thing. I don't generally remember their names, and the dreams are pretty standard dream stuff - sometimes it'll be a fun "wow, I can fly, let's glide over this lake!" dream, sometimes it's an awkward "I really have to pee and the only toilet is in the middle of this crowded cafeteria for some reason" type thing; sometimes it's mundane, sometimes it's wild, sometimes it's scary, sometimes it's funny.The only weird thing about it is that the person I "am" in the dream, is not who I am in my waking life.
It's never anyone I recognize, and I don't think it's ever been the same person twice. Oh, and when I'm someone else, nobody from my life appears in the dream - it's other strangers. When I'm myself, the dream will frequently include people I know.
As I said, I always figured this was something that happened in everyone's dreams. But whenever I've mentioned this to people in my life, they say they've never had any dreams where they wern't themselves. Some seem to think I could be "dropping in" on other peoples' dreams. LOL!

So how about you guys? Are you always "you" in your dreams, or do you sometimes find yourself playing someone of a different age/race/gender?

Just wondering.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bingo Across the Aisle

  At Sunset Palms Assisted Living, peace used to sound like plastic bingo chips rattling in paper cups, peppermint tea sloshing in saucers, and someone asking, every forty seconds, whether the thermostat had been touched. Then came the North Lounge Incident. No one could later agree on what started it. Mr. Henderson said it was the remote control. Mrs. Gable said it was “the tone.” Dr. Aris insisted, with academic sorrow, that civilization had begun its decline when someone changed the channel during a documentary about Eleanor Roosevelt. By Thursday, Sunset Palms had split in two. The North Lounge became the Blue Room, filled with navy cardigans, reusable water bottles, and residents who nodded gravely at panel discussions. The South Lounge became the Red Room, heavy with scarlet vests, patriotic mugs, and people who said “common sense” as if it were a legal weapon. Management thought it was being clever. “We are creating emotional safety,” said Brenda, ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The 7 Virtues of Creativity EP. 3 - NOBODY ASKED HER WHY

  The conference room was climate-controlled to a degree that felt aggressive, a steady, humming chill that kept the air smelling faintly of ozone and expensive espresso. Wisdom sat at the polished mahogany table, her knuckles resting lightly against the grain. At sixty-five, she had learned how to occupy space deliberately, without apology or invitation. Across from her, the curator, a young man with a sharp haircut and a vest that cost more than Wisdom’s first car, gestured toward a projected slide of her latest series. He spoke with the rhythmic, practiced cadence of someone who had never had to worry about the cost of paint or the silence of a studio that lacked a heating bill. “What we’re really aiming for,” he said, smiling with a bright, professional warmth, “is a sense of creative empowerment. This exhibition isn’t just a display; it’s an immersive community experience. We want to uplift artistic voices and facilitate a dialogue centered on radical engagement.” Wisdom...
Post a Comment
Read more

Citizen

    At sixty-six, I had gotten very used to my life. Not in a bad way. In a relieved way. My husband Marc and I had a good life. A middle-class life. Predictable, routine, sometimes even boring, which at this age I had come to appreciate more than I ever did when I was younger. Coffee in the morning. Meals at regular times. Bills paid, more or less. A house that felt lived in. A husband who is kind, steady, and regimented in ways that used to amuse me and now mostly comfort me. Marc is seventy-three. He likes order. He likes things where they belong. He folds towels neatly, keeps track of what needs doing, fills the car with gas before it becomes urgent, and notices when I’m worried even before I say anything. There is something deeply loving in the way he moves through daily life. Not flashy love. Dependable love. The kind that makes a life feel held together. And I was happy. Or maybe content is the better word. Either way, I wasn’t looking for upheaval. But ...
Post a Comment
Read more