I’ve had some really weird dreams.
One time it was a soiree with the devil and his daughter in my mom’s room. Another time, it was an angel disguised as a beggar. I still remember the one where robbers intercepted road users and tied them to their car trunks naked, or the one where I learnt to fly away from kidnappers.
For many of these fantastic episodes, or at least the ones I remember, I was ill. And the best explanation I found (after 10 minutes of Page 1 articles) is something called fever dreams: when your body temperature is high, the brain goes a little berserk during REM sleep.
These days, the wacky director in my head doesn’t have to work too hard for fever productions.
I find myself in my childhood church, bored to death and scheming to escape aunties and uncles. I find myself in boarding house, struggling with dirty toilets, tattered mattresses, looking for stolen items. I find myself avoiding a brawl with a stranger who seems to only understand violence. I find myself in a house, some house, my house, with acquaintances from my past, taking over my space and using my stuff without permission.
I’ve had variations of these dreams over the years, and in each one I’m trying so hard to get the fuck out.
When I wake up, I’m exhausted and a little traumatised, but ultimately relieved to be back in control.
It’s interesting, anxiety.