Words: Kitty Rose (she/her)
‘ I loved, and still love, existing in my own brain. I am an explorer; a conqueror of wild jungles, crashing waves, towering mountains.’
I once lost my tooth to a Curly Wurly chocolate bar on my pink trampoline in the garden when I was four or five, and ever since I’ve had dreams where my teeth fall out into my hands, one after the other, wobbling loose and crumbly like chalky cheese in my bleeding gums. I have had children, and woken up with my arms feeling empty as they ache for the weight of a baby, or tiny starfish hands which search to clasp and hold my index finger. I have fallen in love with faceless strangers, and people I know. I have died and lived once again, resurrected from the dead like Jesus on Easter Sunday.
When I was younger, I had dreams so vivid, I would believe they had actually happened. I remember when I was eight or nine, I turned to my mum in the kitchen and asked if we would ever go to Australia again. Spoiler alert – we had never been. I had just dreamed it years ago. I remember we stayed in a little tin hut, sat squat and crouching in its corrugated, silver silhouette. We had dinner in a big warehouse, sat at a long trestle table, where two golden retrievers ran around everyone’s feet begging for scraps. There were bright, terracotta red sand dunes which glowed in the dusk, fluorescent and radioactive in their brightness. Stars were scattered in the big, dark night sky.
Come to think of it, younger me was clearly lacking some critical thinking skills, because the more I write, the more I realise I am basically describing a Google stock image of ‘Australian Desert’. But I love how I believed it with such conviction. There was not a doubt in my mind that I hadn’t travelled halfway across the world. So much possibility entrenched in my dreams, whether I was aware of it or not. I used to go to bed early, just so I could fall asleep and dream. Or, instead, I would dream when I was awake, creating stories and situations which either weren’t possible or weren’t happening in my own life. Depressing, concerning, or fun? You tell me. I personally think it’s all three.
I even used to have a recurring dream that I would see in the style of Radiohead’s ‘Burn the Witch’ music video. The dream mirrored the plot of a short story we read at school called The Lottery, where someone was given a Black Spot, and they would be killed to purge the town of bad omens. In this dream, I would have a massive argument with my mum, and then she was chosen for the Lottery. She would be taken away from me before I got to say goodbye, and I would wake up and run to her room to hug her first thing. Oh joy! I would be carted off from the town square in a steam train, and sometimes when I was awake, I thought I could see a little bit of smoke huffing and puffing and chuffing like the train in the corner of my eye. It would be there for a split second, I would blink, and then it was gone.
I have to admit I still sometimes do this now. Slip through the cracks between sleep and dream, reality and imagination. Blend and smear these paradoxes to make them become one. I give myself a nudge as I drift off to sleep as my pretend love interest starts to do cartwheels, or speaks Simlish in my curated scenario. Don’t we all do it sometimes, to varying degrees? Right, guys? When we fancy someone, or really want a new job, or think about a new place we want to explore?
I loved, and still love, existing in my own brain. I am an explorer; a conqueror of wild jungles, crashing waves, towering mountains.
I know I sound insane – and maybe I am. But this blending, melting, crossing of the boundaries between dream and awakeness fascinates me. People always say they never want to hear about other people’s dreams. That they’re trivial, and dull, and seriously, what are you going to learn hearing some nonsensical rambling that ends up sounding like a corny ‘walked into a bar’ joke? Booooo, tomatoes, tomatoes. Lame!
But I care. I really do. Tell me your dreams, and I’ll tell you mine. Let me peek into your mind, the house that you have built and live in. What exists in that something of something of something of something? I’ll stay here for a while, and listen. Let me get cosy, pull up a chair. I want to know. And then, afterwards, maybe we’ll go to Australia together, and eat a Curly Wurly in some rolling orange sand dunes. Just briefly, though. We’ve got to wake up early in the morning.
