How to carry memories that aren’t yours.
As far as I know, I’ve always been a dreamer. Way back when I was a small child, I’d always been happy to go on car rides, From infancy all the way through to my teenage years, I’d happily sit staring out the window for hours.
From what I’ve gathered, my imagination must be more vivid than most. Sometimes a dream will insist on taking precedence, filling my thoughts for days on end. In times of serious stress, I’ve noticed a reoccurring day dream for weeks.
I can’t say I understand it. Sure, it’s a coping mechanism. So is tv, and junk food. Anyone can go out to the store and buy those. What happens to my brain that I can dream hours away with my eyes open?
Since middle school, I’ve resented dreaming. When I start dreaming, writing, or inventing, it always seems to compile. One day it’s a slow period at work, the next I wake up tired after sleeping that night because my brain was too busy dreaming to rest. In states of depression I’m a known hypersomniac, sleeping up to 12 hours a day during the worst patch of my life.
It’s hard to get a grasp on somehow. I’ve noticed even the smallest of dreams can make me emotional, drawing anger or sadness I have no reason to feel in the real world. It tends to concern me — is life not full of plenty of those already? And it’s always worse when I’m alone.
Maybe I need to meditate. To dictate to my brain when it should bring up these fantasies. Lord knows I can’t avoid sleep, and that I’ll need daydreams sometimes to survive life’s many tiny monotomies. A to-do list often helps, checking off a few at a time or finding company to chase the world inside my brain away.
I guess I should be grateful that I have a choice. Occasionally, it’s nice to slip into fantasy, like a good book or great tv. The older I grow though, the more I feel like I’ve got too much of a good thing.
Fraying Pages 