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To Sleep, Perchance to Obsess

This is not cool, people. I’m starting to have the dreams.

(No, ya big perv — not those kinds of dreams. If I had those dreams, I wouldn’t be telling you about it, now would I?

Or at the very least, I wouldn’t be calling them ‘not cool’. Sometimes ‘those’ dreams are the only things that get me out of bed on a workday morning. Le whee.)

The dreams I’m talking about are the work dreams. You ever get those? You’re so swamped at work, and juggling so many things at once that all the office-related shit finally seeps deep into your subconscious and invades your nighty-night time, too? And doesn’t that just suck big fuzzy old ass?

Me, I’ve been having the dreams for a week or more. Big things are happening at Workplace™, and I’m right in the middle of it. Or close to the middle, anyway. Maybe a little to the left, and south a bit — yeah, right there, see that table just off-center? I’m hiding under that most of the time. Bitches.

See, sleep is usally a refuge from whatever’s going on in the real world. I don’t always remember my dreams, but when I do, they’re usually pretty okay. Confusing, and nonsensical (Yeah, ‘imagine that’, right? Smartass.), but generally a good time. Even when they’re not those kinds of dreams.

But lately, my six-to-eight hours of sleep have been eerily reminiscent of my eight-to-twelve hours at the office. Now even in my dreams, I find myself hunched over a keyboard or a whiteboard, or — ye gods forbid — in a meeting, trying desperately to get things done. Or at least to the point where the next sensation I feel isn’t likely to be a boot firmly thwacking my ass.

Now don’t get me wrong — I’m making progress. At least, I feel like I’m making progress. Well, that is to say — I think I feel like I’m making progress. But if I really thought that, I probably wouldn’t spend my nights dreaming about making progress, then, would I? Or more often, dreaming about not making progress. Perhaps there’s less to my self-assurance than I’d initially hoped. Damn it.

In the end, of course, all of this will pass. The work will get done, eventually, one way or another, and I’ll go back to surfing my usual dream channels — sports, conversations with random and impossible combinations of people, and (of course) flying.

(I forget what the flying dreams say about me, but I’m pretty sure it’s not good. All interpretations of dreams seem to be disparaging or embarrassing, or frequently both, and I’m sure this one’s no different.

It probably indicates something horrific to do with penis size or my mother or being a latent emu necrophiliac or something. For what it’s worth, I don’t have the flying dreams nearly as often as I used to, but I’m sure somehow that’s bad, too. Maybe I’m not even good enough for dead emus any more. Meh.)

Anyway, sooner or later, I’ll be back to ‘normal’. As close as I get, anyway. In the meantime, I suppose I should feel lucky to be getting any sleep at all. Maybe I can get my dream self to relax, at least, and take a quick nap at his desk. I know I’ve wanted to do that for weeks, now, but the real people in my office never give me the chance. Here’s hoping dreamland dude has better luck than I do. Sweet dreams, little buddy.