Sometimes the worst part of the very best dreams is in the realization, in the waking moments, that the dream was nothing more than that. That the feelings, the conversations, and the situations were all a mixture of subconscious desires, memories, and synaptic connections. People we meet in dreams either do not exist, or have no shared memory of the conversations or situations of the dreams.
It stings because reoccurring dreams, in the mind of the dreamer, must mean something, anything beyond just what it likely is. We hold out hope that the person exists or that the situation will occur or something, anything. And it just sets me in a strange funk and a longing for something that never was and likely never will be.
Granted, I’m probably just feeling this way because it’s bloody hot outside and I simply refuse to go for a run where I wake up at 7am and it’s nearly 80 degrees outside.
Enough self-pity. It’s time to move on and time to get going. And how badly can one really feel after listening to Regina Spektor’s “Hotel Song”? Who knew that singing about prostitutes and cocaine could be so catchy?