First I have to admit that I do not “like” to dream in my sleep. I know that it is not a question of “like” or “dis-like”, every human being, maybe every mammal (think of dogs & cats), does dream while sleeping. I have no real idea about what it actually is, what the brain does and why. It may be a process of “cleansing”, of processing daily occurrences, it may a kind of steam-rolling through outdated memories to create space for new memories. All I know is that it is a very powerful “machine” creating images, feelings, situations.
I do not suffer from nightmares, in fact I can barely remember any dream that frightened me, or made me wake up screaming. This happened in my life very seldom, years ago for the last time, and I can not remember what it was.
I still can remember two dreams, one was peculiar and I once wrote about it here. The other involved a kind of war scene, and I think I died there. But again, these were not frightening, but very impressive.
Usually I go to sleep, and if it all goes well I simply loose consciousness, and come back some hours later. Sometimes, when my sleep is interrupted by a call of nature, the awakening is a bit like emerging through layers, an image, a shadow may be lingering in my head, and when I go back under the sheet, it continues.
I think what I described is absolutely normal. In those dreams it is “me” who is talking, moving (one way or another), meeting people, seeing things.
But for some months now, something changed. Now it is a voice that tells me what happens, or does not happen. It is like an auctorial narrator, the (all knowing) voice out of the “off” in a film that talks, and keeps on talking. I can not remember the text, not even single sentences or phrases.
As a child I once tried to find out where the “I” is. I located it somewhere between my eyes, a little upwards behind the forehead. The narrator is not my “i”, and I have no clue who or what it is, who speaks there. In a dream some weeks ago I saw a modern house, do not ask me why I knew that it was built between the wars, sometimes around 1930 (it was top modern for the age, think of the Rietvelt house, but different), it was located in the then Czech Republic ; in front of it stood a Tatra car, red, with three headlights (maybe a 603), dirt was dripping from its right front wheel. I thought something along the line that you have here most modern European design, but the road is not macadamised (and the word “makadmisiert” (tarred) was there), while the narrator took over, and the journey went on. It switched from “I” to “the narrator”.
I have no idea what to make out of this. Maybe I am just getting a bit paranoid from too much isolation, or maybe I start to lean towards hypochondria. But as long as there are no voices telling me what to do in the outside world, and as long as no Janizaries are approaching, all will be fine.