I hate my dreams. It’s a relief and a pleasure to me that so rarely remember them. But they are vivid, and exciting - in a Blair Witch Project sort of way. Not anything I want to remember. I even have some control over my dreams. I can usually wrench the plot away from the really, really bad things. And just killed, instead. Much less troubling.
I used to have lucid dreams fairly often. A couple of weeks ago, I was in bed and I could hear footsteps coming down the hall, closer and closer, I was absolutely terrified, the floor creaked…and I woke up. I sat straight up in bed and scared the cats half to death. That’s what convinced me it had been a dream; if there had actually been someone in the house, the cats would have been under the bed, not on it.
For years, I would dream I was flying just as I was drifting off to sleep. Sometimes it would be so vivid and so real, I was sure it wasn’t a dream.
Several jobs ago, I about once a week, I would dream that I got up, went through my morning routine, went to work, worked all day, came home, had dinner, went to bed, and then the alarm would go off. Those were looonnnngggg days, especially the day that the alarm went off, I got up and went to work, and then the alarm really went off. That whole day, I was never entirely certain if I was awake or not.