You Are Not Stevie Nicks.
I had a dream last night, a crazy dream.
There was a hallway of fire and a small part of my brain was removed, but that is not what I came here to write about. It occurred to me earlier today that even though most people are polite, they could give 2 shits about our dreams.
The endless minutia that defines these images in our subconscious are so vivid to us, and by extension of our vanity we assume everyone else will be as blown away as we were. You heard it here first y’all, they never are. Some people will humor you out of kindness, others get paid to take it all in and give you an analysis; again, they could not be less interested.
Of course, there are two exceptions to this general rule, as I see it. Dreams, translated through art, in almost any media, can be downright delightful. Also, because I’m not a complete ethnocentric tool, I acknowledge that some other cultures place importance on meaningful images from dreams. Those two exceptions aside, you’re not going to get anyone hard over the blueberry rain and carpeted-dragons in your mind.
So what’s the point to all this? I’m calling for a social boycott on recounting dreams. Yeah, I said it. Some might see that play out as rude; I’d call it being blunt, or very matter-of-fact with people. Now we’re just arguing semantics.
Let’s not argue semantics, or listen to our friends babble about their dreams anymore.
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