Last night, I went from a full, deep sleep to a full awake—heart pounding, shallow breathing. I laid in bed, mentally pacing, replaying my dream to try to understand why it scared me so much.
I am a vivid dreamer. My dreams are not dreams. They are action movies. I’m convinced sometimes that if you could transfer my dreams to films and round out the fragments of stories I get to witness, I would be standing on the red carpet someday, trying not to fall while attempting that legs crossed, arm on the hip pose they all do in a stylish dress someone else has chosen for me. No one would be taking my picture, though, because I am not the main actor of my movie dreams. I am always following the action, shot for shot. My figment actors, who are almost always people I do not know, give incredible performances. Although I do not remember their faces when I wake up, I remember what they felt. I believe them. They make me feel things. Continue reading