I rarely dream. While others recount their dreams to others – sometimes at an uncomfortable level of detail – tales of flying over cities and making naked speeches before Congress and whatnot, I’ve got nothing to say.
At this point, I’ll leave you alone for a moment so as to let the idea of me, speechless, sink in.
The medical community will tell you that I exhibit abnormal brain waves, so 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 simply a matter of whether or not we remember them. I’m thinking, however, that 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
– if you lean over and look right there you can see the garbage incinerator for the whole metropolitan area! Minneapolis
It’s true that I sometimes leave the house without my cell phone because I live my life on the edge.
It’s even true that I can get the cats to cock their heads at me and then dash out of the room as if late for a meeting simply by playing The Clarinet Polka, which, if memory serves, also works for unwanted visitors and old boyfriends.
The power of the upper register compels you…
Anyway, 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.