I don’t really remember my dreams that often. I never really have. A few have stuck out over the years, though.
Probably my earliest remembered dream was when I was around nine or ten. I dreamed I was at my grandparents’ house in Okemah, OK, the house they lived in for years when I was growing up. The house was swarming with gremlins (like from the movie Gremlins), and my grandmother and I were crouched together on the ceiling (yeah, upside down like a ninja. Or Spider-Man. Or a Ninja Spider-Man) to avoid them.
I don’t usually remember that many specifics from my dreams. I did (and occasionally still do) have recurring dreams. For most people, recurring dreams are like flying, or having to give a presentation in your underpants. But mine was always running. Bounding, really. Taking giant, lopping strides, barely allowing gravity to have a say in things. I’d run along highways and next to cars, keeping up easily and hardly even trying. I guess it makes sense when you keep in mind I’m a big ol’ fat guy who does not move quickly (and didn’t even when I wasn’t quite so big or old).
In recent years, the dreams I can remember have taken on a more sinister tone. The one I recall from a couple of nights ago is pretty typical: I was standing in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, and my two front teeth started to crumble fracture before my eyes. Little pieces chipped and flaked away. When I looked at my lower teeth, they were full of holes and missing chunks. It was pretty distressing, I don’t mind telling you.
I wish my dreams were more pleasant. It’s not a great way to wake up in the morning, feeling the need to poke around in your mouth to make sure your teeth haven’t rotted out of your head while you slept.
Of course, there are also the dreams like this: