I rarely dream. While others recount their dreams to others – sometimes at an uncomfortable level of detail – tales of flying over cities and releasing Prince Albert from a can and whatnot, I’ve got nothing to say.
At this point, I’ll leave you alone for a moment to let the idea of me, speechless, sink in.
Perhaps my “dreamer” is broken.
My mother, after all, claims to have lost her “skip”.
Then again, while I fully expect that my mother could, at one time, skip, I’ve never been one for remembering my dreams.
Everyone, I am told, dreams; it’s just a matter of whether or not we remember them. And I’m thinking, well if I’m not remembering them, what’s to say I had them in the first place?
Answer me that one!
So what’s it all about, Alfie?
Is it because my conscious life is just so dang fulfilling?
It’s true that I have a fabulous view of downtown Minneapolis – if you lean over and look right there you can see the garbage incinerator for the whole metropolitan area!
And it’s true that I once alphabetized my canned goods just for the fun of it.
It’s also true that I am just this far away from being able to whistle something identifiable. (I am always amazed by whistlers.)
It’s even true that I can often get a late-night snack just by planting the seed a good 45 minutes before I’d like one, ala “Do we have any chocolate?” knowing full well that we don’t. (And yes, I know that is lousy of me, but if Willie would just quit resisting the idea of buying me an Errand-Running Monkey, he wouldn’t have to do it; so really, he brings it on himself. But that’s another blog.)
I still have my “skip”, which I suppose is something.
But I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out by not remembering my dreams.
3 hours ago