A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes...

...in which case boy, am I screwed!  Seriously.  If, as Disney once said, a dream is a wish your heart makes then my heart and I need to sit down and have a little talk, possibly with an expensive psychotherapist.  My dreams are frigging weird!!

Eddie Izzard was right (as he is about so much in life): why do people never have dreams like "I'm walking down the road to buy a Mars bar"?  In my dreams that would turn into, "I was walking down the road to buy a Mars bar when a herd of cows appeared and carried me off to outer space where my Mars bar turned into a vampire and I died" or something.  And I would have actively created that in my head, because for some reason I seem to be getting really good at lucid dreaming (where you are aware of the fact you're dreaming and able to control what happens), so none of that would actually have happened randomly but be by my own intentional design.

Paging Dr Freud...

Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure a dream about walking down the road to buy a Mars bar would be boring as hell, but I would love to know what the heck my subconscious is on about half the time.  Or what drugs it's taking when I'm not looking.  On the one hand it can be great inspiration for my writing, but on the other some of my dreams make me feel like I should be locked up for my own safety.

I'd also like to know why there appears to be a 'director' of my dreams at the moment.  You know how Shakespeare sometimes employed the 'play within a play' device - Hamlet being a prime example?  Well, recently I seem to be having a 'play within a dream' thing going on.  I'll be actively lucid-dreaming something perfectly happily (last night, for example, it was a True Blood-related dream because I'm binging on box sets again), and all of a sudden someone who is in my head will yell "cut!  Stop, let's do that again, it wasn't quite right!" and I'll dream the whole thing again in a slightly different way.

What.  Is Up.  With That?!!

And it's not just recently that my dreams have been super-duper extra specially weird either.  I can still recall in exact perfect detail a dream I had when I was sixteen, which for years convinced me I was going to marry a long-haired biker dude in leather trousers who was paralysed from the waist down (don't ask...), and remember the terror of the sleep paralysis I had a few years ago when I dreamed I was tied to the back of a motorbike, unable to move, while being attacked from above by flying wooden dolls.

To quote Eddie Izzard again: Quod.  The.  Fuck?

Of course it could be that Disney was wrong and a dream is just a dream, but even so.  Why is some wannabe Steven Spielburg invading my head at night and telling me I'm doing my own dream incorrectly?!  That's so messed up I don't even know where to go with it.  

Who knows, maybe I'll dream myself a solution.

Or Freddy Krueger.

Oh crap.

Like I said, paging Dr Freud...