Why bother writing about dreams

Why bother writing about dreams, when they are most likely boring to anyone else who reads them? Writing about dreams helps me remember more dreams better, and I tend to wake up feeling entertained most of the time by all of the weirdness and chaos. Sometimes, I have dreams that end up manifesting themselves in real life in unexpected ways. We rode past a new TWA hotel when we were leaving JFK, and I kept thinking how much it reminded me of a dream where TWA had been resurrected as a company by Boeing. The imagery on the billboards coupled with the old TWA terminal behind the fence smacked of what I’d seen in the dream. Why shouldn’t dreams sometimes show the future? Right before my little brother died, I kept having dreams of him crashing the truck or crashing the family car (which he’d done, apparently, in our driveway though I didn’t know this). I also remember having a dream when my little brother was first born where he’d died in a sledding accident at a place in Colorado where we used to sled. I’d felt horror about it, and then forgotten it until he died in real life. I firmly believe that dreams mean something, try to tell me something, and the reason they end up being more crazy and entertaining than meaningful is entirely due to my own head and will getting in the way, rather than the dreams themselves being defective.

A lot of dreams are just full of fragments of desires and fears. Fears of things to come and desires for things that probably will never come. Dreams where I turn out to have had a full head of hair after all. Dreams of forgetting to take tests or needing to return to high school because I am still missing some key important thing about life that everyone else has understood, but I simply do not. Dreams of longing to travel to so many places and not getting to–often ending up thwarted at massive, labarynthine airports or waylaid by old cars and trucks that won’t start or get lost in similarly mazelike parking lots. Dreams of the old house, always ending up full of secret floors and rooms and passages and hidden treasures outside and crystal clear waters that fill the backyard or streets that end up being paved in the backyard. The old house is often missing most of my family, or my oldest brother finally returns. There is often tons of hand-me-down clothing from my brothers that I have to sort through and make a decision about what to keep.

Those kinds of dreams are, of course, indicators of all the crap I still carry around in my head, waylaid by the past and too incapable of lifting it up off of my back. There is, of course, nothing waiting from high school that I need to go back and learn, nothing from college, nothing that should ever prompt me to feel the need to go back and attempt to relive my past and live again at the old home. But, the dreams are always trying to tell me otherwise.

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