The Autobiography Of Dreams

The Autobiography Of Dreams

 

A.

I wake up so that I can dream. This might seem contradictory, but by the end of my story, maybe you’ll see what I mean. Dreams seem to rarely ever come to me. A whole other monster occupies my sleep. I look forward, not to the act of waking (as that seems to be a somewhat unpleasant and painful experience), but to being alert and able to dream (in a conscious sense).

 

Many believe that dreams are the unconscious depiction or an amalgamation of their hopes, desires, previous experiences, and deep seeded thoughts. It’s believed that these are all unearthed in the depths of sleep. That can’t be it! There must be more to dreams than that! This explanation (loosely accounted for) seems to belittle and devalue the essence of dreams and their effects on us. As a person who seldom dreams, I intend to break past the “dry/ scientific” understanding of dreams. The only way, or at least the best way I know how to do this, is to work through and flush out my thoughts, while explaining my past, give accounts of my own dreams. I do this in order to give a clearer picture of what I think is the root of this phenomenon. I write this for myself. I write this so that I can make sense of all this. Others might scoff, try to disprove, and completely dismiss what is being presented. These are irrelevant to my project. I aim to create an Autobiography of Dreams.

 

 

 

B.

As a child, I remember wondering what the source of dreams was. When I say dreams, (or at least what I understood them to be as a child) I mean the ones similar to movies you have in your head while you sleep. I’d go to school and all my classmates would tell grand tales of these miraculous adventures they experienced while asleep. They would tell fascinating stories of flying in the air, becoming the king or queen of some majestic land, having gifts showered upon them. It was as if I was being told fairy tales everyday. I looked forward to hearing what new fantastical adventure my friends had gone on while they slept. My eagerness to hear their stories originated in the secret I kept from them. My secret was that I couldn’t, for the life of me, dream. Everyday, although I was intrigued by the tales my friends told, I was confused why when I closed my eyes, something much different, much darker happened.

 

In the storyteller times of recess or off time, I refrain from telling anyone what really happened in my “dreams.” I began to make up stories; ones that wouldn’t mimic the content of their stories, but would identically copy the style, the fashion, and passions expressed in their stories. This made the stories believable to my classmates. No one ever called me out on providing them with some insincere account of my dreams. I learned quickly that the more whimsical or eccentric my stories became, the more genuine, as well as intriguing they seemed.

 

C.

I opened my eyes and did not recognize where I was, but I could vaguely make out the features of my surroundings. I was slouched on the ground of a dimly lit hallway with my back against a door. As I raised my head to see where I was, I didn’t recognize this hallway from any that I’d seen before. The walls were covered with that dark fake-wood paneling. You know, the kind that are in old dentist waiting rooms, or poorly decorated houses. I looked down the hallway and could make out that at about every ten or so feet, there were doors on either side with a flickering light hanging from the ceiling in between them. The lights gave off an eerie setting, with a good portion of the hallway and the walls covered in darkness. At the end of the hallway, which seemed like miles away, stood a white door. It was well lit with a red handle. The contrast of the door at the end of the hallway made me tremble. I was scared…