The Thing about Dreams

I love dreaming. Dreams are...fascinating. They dabble with the subconscious like a painting within the mind. They can be bizarre and crazy, and no one would question it. It's the creative output that people do not realize they have.

Some people say dreams highlight things that trouble them the most, or toy with them using wishful thinking. Psychoanalysts like Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung explain that dreams can be decoded and interpreted using symbols, sometimes even forming subjective solutions to real-life questions. I'm open to most theories where the subconscious is concerned.

Someone claimed that if you keep dreams to yourself, it will come true, regardless of whether the dream was a good or nightmarish one. Recent events (and dreams) have led me to share them with others. You know, just in case.

Good ones are not a problem for me. I can only presume that I won't be breathing underwater anytime soon, or ice-skating around a frostbitten mall. I love out-of-this-world dreams, where anything is possible, where jumping out of the window is perfectly safe and walking on the walls is the futuristic way of hanging around.

Bad ones? Two weeks before my grandmother passed away, I had a strange dream of her, my cousin and I crying. Doing nothing but crying. That was when I decided I'll write a letter and send it to her. There were also a couple of other occasions where I dreamed that a particular person was not in the house they're supposed to be in, only to find out several days later that they have had to be admitted into the hospital.

So as a precaution, I must inform you that I have had apocalyptic dreams. And also one about evil ducks.

The thing about dreams is that sometimes it can be such a heartwarming one that I can't help but want to remain there for just a little longer.

Only to wake up and find that the dream has turned into dusty flakes that float in the sunlight by your bedroom window.