I rarely dream. While others recount their dreams to others – sometimes at an uncomfortable level of detail – tales of flying over cities and meeting Johnny Depp 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? Huh? Answer me that one!
So what’s it all about, Alfie?
Is it because my conscious life is just so darn 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!
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.)
Anyway, I still have my “skip”, which I suppose is something (in your face, Mom!) but I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out by not remembering my dreams.
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