The ray of sunlight piercing through the curtains hits my weary eyes like a tonne of bricks.
What just happened?
I indulge my dormant limbs with an immense stretch, until I look like I’m genuinely having an epileptic fit.
Was that a dream, or did that genuinely just happen?
Wiping the sleep/dream spunk out of my eyes, I try to recollect whilst fondling my morning glory. (HAHA I joke, no morning glory for me, I do possess some decency. Besides, the erectile dysfunction prevents that.)
I just got into a lift going to hell with Lenny Henry because neither of us could pass a fitness test.
So, in summary, this did not occur.
Nevertheless, the unexpected potency of some dreams, no matter how absurd they are, can confuse a sleepy mind into briefly believing they’re true. Oneirology, or the study of dreams (yes I did have to Google that ludicrous sounding word), has been a hot topic for centuries. I’m quite certain that humankind for some millennia has been puzzled frequently by their nightly imaginings, regardless of there being a word invented to represent the study of these strange things. Some dreams are, apparently, quite easily interpretable when they include precise elements or situations. A regular theme amongst those who dream is nakedness, as well as the mortification of realising people can see your saggy genitalia, third nipple or whatever may personally be put on show without the concealment and comfort of clothing. Often, ‘oneirologists’ relate this to feelings of shame and panic, whereby you may perhaps be hiding something and are afraid of people being able to see straight through you. The vast majority of us have at one time, perhaps more, experienced the sensation of flying in our dreams; however, the interpretation surely must be dependent not on the actual motion of flying, but the way one feels when doing so. If you’re struggling to stay off the ground, or encounter obstacles, then I assume that implies one must be avoiding certain issues or uncomfortable situations in everyday life. If you’re soaring above the clouds effortlessly, without a care in the world, then that therefore must suggest something totally dissimilar.
None of this takes into account the smorgasbord of dream theories, theorists, psychologists and other variables that contradict each other so ceaselessly. Despite or, perhaps because of, this uncertainty, the concept of dreaming retains an allure which never seems to dissipate at all.
Now, cutting the bull and back to the ‘unorthodox’ dreams which plagued/amused me last night.
Failing a fitness test in heaven and joining Lenny Henry in the depths of fiery hell.
As some of you probably know because I won’t shut the hell up about it, I’m intending to run fourteen marathons in as many days across northern Spain, in a little over two weeks. Recently, I’ve been a wuss and unable to train due to injury. This has made me anxious to a certain extent, and thus failing a fitness test in my deep subconscious doesn’t really surprise me. As for Lenny’s inclusion, God knows.
Getting in a taxi in Venice, before being offered three possible destinations: Alfred Molina’s house, Elton John’s mansion, or an image of three sheets of wobbly Perspex. When the cabbie asked me what the glass sheets were about, I said they were recycled Cybermen from Doctor Who because they were environmentally minded.
Yep, I don’t have a clue either.
Going on a fishing trip with a group of celebrity chefs including Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsay and James Martin amongst others. When I accidentally lobbed the wobbly Italian Antonio Carluccio into the sea, he transformed into a pink swordfish, before attempting to stab me in the eyes with his long pointy nose sword (or a bill, to be correct).
Really, I’d like to have an oneirologist interpret that one.
Getting pursued by a red-haired, lesbian giantess in a German techno nightclub.
What can I say, my mum likes dance music.
BOOM BOOM ;).
Ciao for now. x
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