In dreams, I talk to you

Despite hundreds of books and essays on the subject, nobody really understands how dreams work, even though we all have them, all the time. 

I don't know why they happen, I don't know what is happening in our minds when we dream this stuff, I don't understand them at all. But I do know I have three kind of dreams these days. 

The first is the vast majority of them, which are the ones that instantly fade when I wake up, with residual nonsense images already disappearing from my mind. Strange people and unlikely events that are gone in seconds, even if I try to hold onto them. 

There's been a couple of times I've written the greatest book or movie script ever written in a dream, and it seems so obvious, and then it's swiftly gone in the morning. Some dreams stick around in the memory for years, but the vast, vast majority of them are already gone by the time I get out of bed.

The second type of dream is one where I am glad to wake up, because they are so horrible, or so terrifying, or just really, really annoying. I dream about car crashes and losing loved ones, and those type of dreams have certainly got more intensive since I became a parent, because I know what the worst thing in the world could ever be.

I also have dreams of my teeth crumbling to dust in my mouth, and being on planes that are going down among the high-rises of a city, and being late for vital appointments. I wake with relief, and also the lingering existential shits about how easily my whole world could turn to shit, but mainly relief. 

The third dream is one that I hate to wake up from, because it's such a good time. For most of this life this wasn't something normal like getting close and personal with some crush, or winning the lottery, or going on a magnificent holiday, it was finding a hidden stash of lost 2000ads, or a treasure trove of Best of DC Blue Ribbon Digest books. I would even think about how glad I was that I wasn't dreaming in the dream, as I pull out a digest-sized collection of Martian Manhunter comics by Alan Moore and Gil Kane. 

These days, now that I've clocked up a half century of life on this fucked up world, I don't have these kinds of strong feelings about old comic books, although I'm always glad to stumble upon some Bolland Strontium Dog that only exists in my head. 

Now I'm far more likely to wake with regret when I meet people I have loved and lost over the years, and get to talk to them, and hear their voice, and even though I know it's a dream and I'm not talking to my dear, old Dad, it's as close as I get, and I get to tell him about the grandchildren he never met.

Those dreams still break my heart, but they're still the only place I get to have a cup of tea with my Nana, or sink a beer with one of my uncles, so I still cherish them. Those sorts of dreams I never forget. Those sorts of dreams I never want to.