[Side note #1: I originally was going to write about my favorite video game series, Dragon Age but, I changed my mind. I’ll write about Dragon Age, some other time, I promise.]
[Side note #2: Feel free to skip this post. I do talk about dreams and I understand that it’s not everyone’s thing. I’m not angry.]
I am avidly fascinated by my dreams. I’ve talked about it here, here, and here. I’ve kept some sort of record of the dreams that I find interesting since I was a kid. Most of those dreams have me going around my neighborhood in some fashion. But that might be for a different post.
The other night, my husband told me of his dream:
So, I had a dream where I missed a beautiful girl dedicating a song to me because I was busy arguing with some jerk about Anarcho-capitalism. Even my dreams know I’ve got no game. Thank god for Charlie !!
— feeling thankful.
My dreams tend towards the fantastical as dreams often do. However, they are almost always blurry and in sepia tones as if my subconscious needed glasses and insists on being all “old timey.”
I don’t have nightmares – or at least I don’t remember them – and a fair number of them feature an old Victorian house in need of repair. I read somewhere that the house:
Your dream house is symbolic of the Self, while the rooms inside the house relate to various aspects of the Self and to the many facets of your personality. The attic refers to the mind, while the basement represents the subconscious.
Well, true or not, I always do aim to improve myself, whether it’s obvious or not.
But let me recount the home, in its latest reincarnation. It’s very large with three stories and faded white paint. It has a wraparound porch and the house is almost always seen by itself. It sits on a short hill overlooking an ocean. It also has a lot of tall windows, gleaming and new. The main bedroom is on the top floor which has skylights, making it very airy. The master bathroom is large with a claw-foot tub that is gleaming and begs me to take a bubble bath.
The walls are bare and filed with holes. Sometimes I can see others in them. It is comfortably cluttered and ready to welcome anyone who decides to drop by. There are very few people who live there with me. I don’t mind.
Any color that I do remember is always washed out.
Man, I suppose a psychologist would have a field day with my subconscious,.