Sometimes a Cigar Is just a Book

Some weeks ago, after having a nightmare, my oldest asked me if I had nightmares. In that conversation I mentioned that I could only remember one specific nightmare. I have recurring themes like the baddie that will not die no matter how many rounds I put in him but only one actual plot has returned. Even though I only had that dream twice, each time was traumatic enough for me to remember it.

I have a dream that recurs at least of couple of times per year. (It engenders not so much fright as anxiety, so perhaps it is better categorized as a nightpony.) There are two flavors of the dream. In the first I am searching some room at home and discover a stash of books I forgot I had. In the second I am browsing in a book store and notice interesting books (perhaps by some of my favorite authors) of which I’ve never heard.

In both cases the anxiety comes from my concern that the books somehow evaded my notice and may do so again. I wonder what it says about me that the most recurrent arc in my dreams is that I may have missed a good book.


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