Recently, Armando said that dreams are attempts by the subconscious to tell you something. Or a phrase to that effect. Makes me wonder about the popular notion that dreams are far more than "day residue" played back by the subconscious. Perhaps they are a sort of Matrix-like simulation, an arena where alternatives might be played out and problems sifted through. Whatever their nature, I certainly had a peculiar one this morning.
I was in a rural area, not at all dissimilar to where I spent my childhood in Indiana. I was standing next to a beer delivery truck on a gravel apron at a beverage distributor. My boss was giving me my delivery route; first Lake Station, then Deerfield, then out west to Rockford. I was also supposed to push insulated bags on the customers and make a sale if I could.
I like beer. I had three today while I watched the Bears play with intermittent switches over to the Cubs game. But this dream made me realize that Hell is an app that is customized to the user. For one thing, I cannot imagine having to drive a vehicle that large. I'm certain I would kill someone. Secondly, if you read the "You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?" post, then you know that I hate driving in general. I cannot conscience the idea of making a job out of it. Lastly, there seemed to be sales incorporated into my dream and that is the worst career I can think of next to...nothing. I cannot properly express to you the melancholy weight that I felt during this dream.
Then someone from my day job showed up, someone I respect very much. She took a cigarette out of her mouth and said, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I need the money," I replied.
"You were going to be an English professor!" she said.
"That ship has already sailed."
"So what are you doing now?"
"UFOs, among other things."
"That's crazy. They don't exist and you're wasting your time."
That was when I woke up. Dejected, I harnessed my dogs and went for a walk.
As I fought my boy Chewie the entire way, his yanking and his pulling and his 85 pound body demanding to go its own way, I drifted aimlessly in thought. What was the dream trying to tell me? I know I am passed my prime and I have failed to initiate anything that even remotely qualifies as a career. But UFOs? However fascinated I might be, am I wasting my time writing about such subject matter? UFOs are a topic that garners little respect from the world at-large. Little respect and even less money. The whole subject is one still largely relegated to the tabloid papers of supermarket check-out lines.
I came back inside and as we say in Chicago, had "a couple two-tree" cups of coffee. I'm doing better now, especially after a Bears, Cubs, Buccaneers trifecta of wins. Beer doesn't hurt, either. But yet I feel uneasy.
What is my brain trying to tell me?Where am I to go from here?
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