Boring Me and Dreams

Where did my fun go? I realize that about the time I moved away from Washington, I became a far less entertaining person. Maybe it's the slower pace of life that's done it to me. Maybe it's my brain deciding to grow increasingly more neurotic. Or maybe it just comes with being a mom and in a constant state of exhaustion.

It's all that shit combined.

My dreams seem more important than my waking life sometimes. I get up in the morning, fresh from a mind drama, still feeling the after effects. It's akin to the feeling of leaving the theater after seeing an epic, life changing film. The quiet reflection. I can't speak to anyone for the first 10 minutes, I have to concentrate on how that just made me feel. Then I need to tell anyone who will listen all about it.

See what I did? I think I just completely switched topics there. And I don't even care. I guess my point is that on the outside I find myself boring, but the inside of my brain is fucking amazing. I live there, and when I'm sleeping, it feels like others live there with me. And it would be fucking magnificent to share a dream with other people. Actual people, not made up dream versions of other people.

I think I have this obsession with my dreams because it reminds me that I can actually feel things. My dreams evoke emotions that I lack when I'm awake (or at least sober). I'm human after all. It's comforting. I zombie through my grayscale life eagerly awaiting the hour when my head hits the pillow and I can wake up in color, like Dorothy in Oz.