No dreams last night. But that's interesting in itself (to me at least). Did I not dream because my day was weird and eventful enough? Believe me, you wouldn't know it. I love dreams... even bad ones. But what are they? I sometimes wonder if they're the real stuff, and every day you go under into the true dream world, which is what we usually take for reality. So when you go into your non-dream (which has hitherto been considered a dream. Confused?) you'll say something like:
"Uh, I had a really bad dream last day."
"What happened, dear?"
"Well, I dreamed that I had an oppressive nine-to-five job, and I was trying to write novels in my spare time."
"Oh, that sound's terrible, dear."
"Yeah. It was."
"Mind you, the job can't have been that oppressive if you were able to post on myspace during it. Now shut up and eat your breakfast."
"I can't seem to. Every time I reach for the cereal bowl, it just gets further and further away..."
The earliest memory I have is of a dream. I was about three at the time, according to my mum, and it's a very vivid memory involving a witch, a wheelchair, and a drain. I can still see the witch's face. She looked like Rodney Bewes' wife in Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads.
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