I had a dream last night. A spectacular, extravaganza, oh my god i can’t believe how great this dream is dream.
I have no idea what it was.
Geniuses often have great dreams. Keith Richards woke up with “Satisfaction” in his head, hummed it into a recorder and went back to sleep. He was impressed the next morning when he heard it for the first time. John Phillips woke up Michelle to write down the lyrics to “California Dreaming.”
I am almost certain my dream was equally brilliant. I likely tried to wake Mo so that it could be written down, which would explain the fist-shaped bruise on my arm.
Why are dreams so much better than life? I’m a creative person. I spend most of the day in a daydream haze. Why don’t great thoughts just pop in my brain since it’s not being otherwise used?
And whatever happened to my running dreams? I once dreamed of running almost every night. Horrible dreams of trying to climb up a hill so steep that my chin kept hitting the grass. 24-hour races in which I invariably showed up 2 hours late. Wait. I think I’m glad those dreams are gone. But I still run daily. Why no dreams? On some subliminal level have I given up my dreams of running? Sad.
And if dreams are so great, why do I so often forget them at first light? Maybe it’s because my alarm radio is randomly set between ESPN radio and a Spanish station, unleashing an early morning Battle of the Bands that scares away the ghost of inspiration.
All I know is that last night’s dream was one I knew I would remember forever. And now I have no clue what it was.
Or maybe there was really no flash of brilliance at all.
Maybe it was all just a dream.
I need a nap.