I write out my dreams mainly to remember them and reconstruct them. But I realize people’s dreams are boring to everybody else but themselves and, perhaps, their psychoanalysts. I love the colors, the smells, the narration by feeling – but all of that is mostly non-transferable. What you’re inevitably left with, after the telling, is the carcass of the dream, the bare bones of my happy synapses. It’s like submitting a map of a town to tell a traveling story.

I either need more interesting dreams, shorter dreams; or more likely, I need to forgive myself this very selfish indulgence.

SS