Dream #1

I’ve always had really vivid dreams. At least once a week I’ll have a dream which I remember so clearly I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t know why I have such lucid dreams when most other people seem to have only a vague recollection of their’s or forget them altogether.

My dreams often have an influence on my writing. Sometimes I’ll wake up with an idea fully formed in my mind or I’ll simply have had a dream which I’ll write down. Often my dreams are funny and I wake up laughing, like the dream which was Tits Up, the 900 Club short story – I barely had to fill in any gaps in that story, virtually the whole thing was my dream. I laughed so hard when I had that dream I very nearly pissed the bed. Most times though, it’ll be an idea from a dream rather than the whole thing.

So I’ve decided to describe my dreams on this blog each time I have a particularly memorable one, I will just number them as I’m not sure they make enough sense to think of titles.

Last night something new happened, my dream had song lyrics in it. Sadly I can only remember one line, there was a chorus as well but, frustratingly, it has faded from memory. I still had the tune in my head this morning – guitars and a synth – but they have also sunk into the murky depths.

This dream was straight out of an Iain M Banks novel. I was a Culture agent working undercover in a giant, evil corporation. I had a desk and a computer. My computer was odd looking though, it looked more like a microfiche reader. At the beginning of the dream my computer locks me out of the company’s system and I know I’ve been found out. I have to move quickly to avoid being killed and I escape.

The next thing I know I am with other Culture agents in an environment designed by ourselves. There is no visible floor or ceiling or sky, we are just floating alongside tree trunks which disappear into darkness beneath and above us. We are talking and laughing. Then one of the Culture agents I am talking to disappears downwards into the dark and when his corpse floats back up to our level again his head has been incinerated. Somehow we know that our enemy has found us – I don’t know how  you know these things in dreams without anything happening to tell you, you just know. The enemy is a man all in black with no facial expression, just wide, angry eyes. Instead of feet, he has a little jet engine. He seems to have used this to roast my friend’s head.

Once again the dream skips to the next scene. This seems to be a recurring thing in my dreams – they tend to miss bits out as if I only need to see the most important bits. The next scene is the one which stuck in my head the most. I am flying very fast over a sort of tundra. The landscape is passing beneath me at high speed. I am with the other agents and we are being chased by the man with the jet engine instead of feet. This is where it gets weird.

David Bowie starts singing. I hear the guitars and a the synth and all the lyrics but, as I said, I can only just about remember one line now, this is what he sings:

“We know the sun will make it through,

But God only knows how we do.”

There was a chorus as well but I can’t remember it, which is a shame because it went well with the synth. As soon as Bowie’s voice starts up I see things hovering in the air. The first thing is a big toilet made of chocolate sponge cake, and when he sings “We know the sun will make it through” the seat closes. When he sings the chorus, the toilet disappears and a giant, pink sponge cake bunny running through custard appears.

Well, that’s it. That’s dream number one. Any ideas what all that was about?

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2 thoughts on “Dream #1

  1. It is patently obvious that there are dark, psychotic tendencies to your character. The fact that you are an undercover ‘agent’ speaks of your harbouring of lies, which you are incapable of reducing or eliminating due to your deep seated fear and anger. Obviously, the fact that you spend most of your time running away in this dream is testament to the fear of concealing so many terrible lies in real life. The cakes (one being a toilet, tellingly) represent your profound selfishness and there is an unspeakable to desire to kill your friends, and possibly your mother and pets, which is evoked with the burning of your friend’s head. Having made these preliminary diagnoses, I’m sure that, despite these glaring psychopathies, you are a man of lovely, squidgy tenderness, and a dynamic lover.

    Sincerely, Dr Fallopian Rectalburger.

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