I rarely dream. My last, before this early morning, was short and sweaty. I was wandering through a housing estate, horrified at the amount of broken glass scattered throughout the walkways. I gathered up every piece, knocked at the nearest door and asked for three black refuse sacks in which to wrap the shards before depositing them in a communal wheeled bin. The occupant punched me firmly in the gut, and proceeded to roll me backwards and forwards across the glittering passageway. My next recollection was being transported on a blue-pile carpet, attached to a rainbow stretching out across the urban landscape, which delivered me directly to an intensive care unit. I watched in utter fascination as nurses carefully extracted a hundred thousand slivers of glass from my arms, legs and torso. Blood loss and scarring would normally(?) be major concerns for someone whose skin had been virtually shredded, but instead I had found myself wondering whether the glass would be collected by Environmental Services, ground down and recycled...pictured myself sandpapering the wounds away, and felt an intense surge of relief and release. I woke, and my flesh was pissing perspiration, although I had felt blissfully unperturbed throughout the dream.
This morning's was infinitely more conventional. I dreamt that I failed to wake, in that I was caught in a demented loop of waking from successive dreams only to discover that each phase of sleeping & waking was merely a dream within a dream. If you've ever experienced that particular scenario, you will know how disturbing it can be on emergence into supposed consciousness. How often, or rather, how rarely are we really 'awake'? I'm sure Ashok would have an answer, if not 'the' answer, to that one...
I am currently between moods.
I am listening to ergonomics advisors mumbling something about work/study hours lost to online communities, interspersed with fusillades of 'Duality' - Slipknot.