My adult dreams are always an indication of my deepest concerns, the kinds of things that I shove aside in the day. They are not matter-of-fact; symbolism is rife in them - people and places are not the same - but their meaning is still plain to me.
My adolescent dreams were vivid and full of music and art and love: they were my escape from an ugly world. I dreamt entire symphonies then, sparkling bubbles floating in the sky, and color-washed paisley landscapes populated with fantasy creatures.
I was not on drugs, maybe too much co2 from slumbering so much, and so deeply. My dreamworld was my life; I slept sixteen out of every twenty-four, more if I could get away with it. I missed school and dreamt. I missed meals and dreamt. I missed all family involvement and dreamt. When I awakened, my unfinished dreams would continue and prevent me from hearing or seeing. Even when I tried to focus, the dreams would cast a web over my consciousness, their siren call impossible to resist.
On my few forays into public education, I'd come home and struggle with my algebra homework. I solved the equations in my sleep. That's when I discovered a measure of control over my dream life, which led to more control over my waking life.
That was a good and necessary feat . . . then.
Now, I seek release again into the chaos and delight of no control and imagination set free from worries and responsibility. Dreams are an escape valve, a diary, canvas, sieve, an internet (internal networking) of all things past and possible.
Does age diminish the siren call of dreams? Does the sum total of one's past overpower the x factor in what is still possible? I'll try to solve for that tonight.