Sleeping Life

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had incredibly vivid and unusually linear, storylike, dreams.  Last night was no exception.  I’ll spare you the full account, and say only that it included teetering on the edge of a fire escape over a thousand foot cliff in Yosemite National Park, biking away from mountain lions in a San Francisco city park, watching a troupe of zombies gather peacefully outside my window, and, most powerfully, speaking with an old love for the first time in years.  (Okay, maybe they’re not always so linear.)

It was all disturbingly real, and I woke up still feeling the frozen weakness of fear in my legs as if I were still on that fire escape, and the horrible ache of lost love in my chest as if I were still hugging my old love, hearing her say my name.

I wondered why it is that dreams can seem more “real” than this world that surrounds me now.  This waking life.  Perhaps it is because, when I am in any of those dream moments, I am aware of nothing but that moment.  I’m never thinking about this waking life, or what anyone else is doing who is not right there in that dream moment with me.  In other words, I’m fully present.

In my waking life, I’m much more likely to be thinking about other things or people or times or places.  This can scatter my awareness to the point where this moment that I’m in seems less substantial.  Less real.  Which kinda sucks.

Then again, I suppose it’s hard to compare typing a blog post on your laptop with escaping from mountain lions, or holding tight to someone you love.

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