Contrariwise

Perchance to dream.

My mom gave me a book tonight, something I’ve been hoping she’d give me for a very, very long time. When I was a child and I’d crawl into bed with her after my startling, frightening dreams, she’d write them down. 

They’re now mine. 

But as I look forward to reading all those long forgotten dreams I can’t help but think about my present ones as well. Have they always been this manic, or hopeful, or even linear? I feel like as children we didn’t require our dreams to have a definitive arc. They didn’t need to have a somewhat reasonable plot by which to explain their surreality to our brains.

They just were.

I slept better back then. 

Ok, that’s a partial lie. Truth be told I’ve never been all that great at sleeping. But then I do recall being at least somewhat more adept at it back when, even if the old bad dreams would keep me up all night. Now I simply roll over and begin again… And again, should the same dream refuse to dissipate. We don’t let our new dreams haunt us like the ones we had as a children…

Until we do. I’ve had one.

It still makes me shiver.

So these days I mostly go through spells of good sleep, usually (and perhaps obviously) affected by my stress level. If I’m happy, relaxed, and excited for the coming day, I sleep well.

You can figure out the alternative.

And I guess my commenting on the lack of sleep I occasionally suffer from is like complaining about scant rainfall in a desert climate. But isn’t that why you miss something? If it’s perfect all the time, how do you really appreciate it properly? Perhaps later in life, when things have settled somewhat and the tomorrow’s ahead aren’t as unpredictable, I’ll sleep fitfully more often. I’m sure I’ll appreciate it then, after so many years without it. 

But until that day comes, I’ll look backwards. 

And inwards.

I miss my childhood dreams. 

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