I’ve grown accustomed to sleep making up the better part of my days. I’m awake for six hours tops, and then I am gone again.My dreams make up most of reality now. That does not make sense, but then again neither does life.
Usually I dream about being somewhere else and feeling right at home. Once or twice I’ve dreamed about a full-blown zombie apocalypse. Sometimes I dream about the dead. Just now, I woke up from a dream about sneaking out from daddy’s house with a supposed boyfriend (why else would I meet him at 3 in the morning) whose face I do not recognize, or have already forgotten.
All these, sharp and vivid, made picturesque by seeming poignant, betraying my sense of place. Take it from Leonardo DiCaprio in Inception, who said that we only realize the strangeness of dreams upon waking up. I have long stopped asking myself what they mean. Perhaps I am scared, or I just don’t care.
The dreams were eloquent, but they were also beautiful. That aspect seems to have escaped Freud in his theory of dreams. Dreaming is not merely an act of communication (or coded communication, if you like); it is also an aesthetic activity, a game of the imagination, a game that is a value in itself. Our dreams prove that to imagine –to dream about things that have not happened– is among mankind’s deepest needs. Herein lies the danger. If dreams were not beautiful, they would quickly be forgotten.
— Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being