Subconscious Knows Best


I’m not terrified to go to sleep, just anxious for the simple fact that my dreams have been out to get me. Sounds crazy? Believe it. They’re not nightmares; but they make me feel uncomfortable. When I’m on the verge of waking up, they feel so real to me that when I actually do wake up, I’m just so excited that it’s over, although that’s not always the case when I’m asleep.

There was a moment when all of my dreams were fascinating, fun, and adventurous. Even when I felt scared, there was just an ounce of me tugging me by the end of my hair into the real world, back to reality. Maybe because the dreams were just too impossible to be real – or I just didn’t take them seriously at all. I recently explored a wonderful dream, but I only represent the last few moments of it. It was a naked woman lying on what looked like the bottom mattress of a bunk bed. Her body was amazingly soft and curvy. Her bedroom eyes and pouting lips resembled that of Bernadette Peters. And she looked at me like nothing else in the world mattered, like I was the only one meant just for her. And she kissed me. She sat up and held my face. She was so tender to that if heaven existed (at least our own versions of heaven) then this is what I would want heaven to feel like.

Now, the last couple of dreams in a row have involved sex… sex with people I didn’t want to have sex with. The most vivid and detailed of the two happened when I somehow started napping yesterday. It was an hour long rest, but the dream in my mind played like it lasted for days.


I’m at a party. I meet a woman who looks like Marlene Dietrich from far away. Her skin is iridescent and her hair is this burning orange wave of locks curled at the tip. Her lips are beaming a delicious deep red. But as she talks to me, whispering to me, I notice the lines in her face – there’s something she’s trying to hide. She wants me to follow her to another room. Instead, the place we’re in now – the people in it, the music – melts away.

Suddenly, I’m underneath her and she’s lying on top of me. Her frizzy hair gets caught in mine as she kisses me really hard. We’re naked. She tries to force my hands to touch her tits. She maneuvers my hand down to her pussy, and instead I feel a small flaccid penis. She violently pushes my hand towards her asshole. Then I realize something – that I’m not making love to Marlene Dietrich at all… I’m making love to an over-sized bald man… a confused over-sized bald man! And when it’s done I look around me and that sensuous white space is actually a basement littered with stupid DVD cases on the floor and random ass furniture turned up on its head. I was lying on the bottom of a ripped up sofa. He told me to help him turn it over. For once, I was glad to wake up.

If Jung’s dream interpretation is true, and if I’m remembering it correctly, every element of my dream is meant to represent me. The DVDs, the party goers, the music, the fucked up furniture, the fat man, Marlene = all me. Maybe I’m hiding something angry and vulnerable behind an air of elegance and pomposity. Maybe I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe my functions have gone awry and now I’m just feeling trashy. What I find funny isn’t funny anymore… or maybe this is just how I’m feeling and I need to get over it.

Oh Bernadette, where did you go?

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