My sleep pattern is erratic. Shallow, light, one hint of a snore and I’m wide awake again, but, most nights, it is actually getting to sleep that is the biggest problem.
As soon as my head hits the pillow, my thoughts keep me awake. I think about the things that have been on my To Do List for weeks and cuss myself about the things I left off my shopping list. I also brainstorm ideas for my next story.
I defy any would-be author to say that their works-in-progress don’t keep them awake. When I do think of a plan to propel my story forward, out comes the laptop and I suddenly realise its nearly 3.a.m. During the first couple of years into my first novel, I was up all night writing it anyway.
Last night was different. I slept well, soundly and when I sleep well I dream. I spun, twirled, ducked and dived, my way to fantasia, my very own subconscious creation myth. A burlesque interpretation of my life, farcical mirror images of me, triggered by the repressed images I subconsciously store at the back of my mind.
So, why do we dream? Scientists will give you many reasons, these are some of mine.
I have been known to save the world on my black as night charger. The suppressed fantasy of the luxury of owning my own horse again, perhaps?
Frequent visitations back to my childhood, retaking exams, mealtimes with my parents. The desire to experience as an adult, what my life was really like when I was a child?
As a child, I had a recurring nightmare about three witches standing around a well and a very small me convinced they were about to throw me in. Perhaps I should have waited to read Macbeth until I was older?
More recently my recurring dream/nightmare is about dragging my worldly goods around on a hand-drawn cart. I keep putting my dog and three cats on the back of the cart. They keep jumping off, I keep putting them back until they eventually run away and I can’t find them. My wallet is something else I am regularly losing in my dreams and I end up roaming the streets with nothing more than the clothes I am wearing. Brexit angst?
Who knows? Maybe Freud would have had a hunch?