Describe trying to remember a dream
A Visit to the Dream Factory
There’s lots of squinting blindly into the distance as I try to make the journey inside my mind.
I wonder what the imagination would look like if I was creative about it?
Probably the least creative idea imaginable, conveyor belts are the first thing that spring to mind.
Let’s try again.
Okay, so maybe there are huge vats of bubbling, viscous liquids on each side of the belt. Rich purples, so bright it could only have been produced with artificial flavours and colourings… or by the mind. Waxy lemon yellows, royal blues, strawberry jam reds. Some of them even flecked with particles of deeper red, adding interesting, delicious looking textures, like the seeds in raspberry jam. Oddly, the popping bubbles that burst from the surface of each vat, disgusting had they been emitted from grey and brown, pulpy liquids, look more intriguing than anything else when bright colour is added.
Yes, that’s what remembering a dream is like. Being on a conveyor belt and getting distracted by each thought in turn, looking closer at the details and wondering, just wondering. Does this all mean something? I gloss over some elements – even miss them out entirely. My attention is fully focused on one element until… too late! I’m at the end of the conveyor and the dream has ended.
Better go back to the start, see if I can notice anything new this time round.
There are some dreams that don’t seem quite interesting enough to share. So maybe I embellish. I mean, if you look REALLY hard and REALLY close, there definitely is a slight sparkle emitting from the Elphaba-Green vat of liquid. No one will know if I quickly twist the dial on the side of the vat. Up, up a few notches. Just a few. It’s only a little bit underhand, nothing major. Voila! The sparkles are turned up and the dream is more interesting, more magical, more how I would have made it if my brain had been turned on when I dreamed the dream. This isn’t rewriting, just expanding. It’s a little more exciting, and this sparkling, golden, wonderfully flashy element is a little more integral to the dream as a whole.
The more I go over and over the dream, my feet start to notice odd bumps and dips in the conveyor belt. Maybe the conveyor isn’t as simple as I first thought. Maybe I was wrong to dismiss it. Finally, I look down to see what I should have seen all along. The core of the dream. It could be a patchwork quilt of thoughts, a yellow brick road of borrowed ideas, a concrete pavement, or none of those things at all.
Whatever it is, I know only one things as I squint with effort to remember my dreams, and tap them out on my laptop screen. I know that, once I have woken up and left that remembered dream forever, it can never again exist in its organic state. My awoken mind will embellish, focus and ignore until it creates a dream interesting enough, acceptable enough to be told to other people. This dream factory, my dream factory, will never be good enough, never be comparable to better minds than my own.