Writing of Dreaming

I had a dream last night, and I had to write it down. It’s sort of complicated. What was weird was it’s dream-within-a-dream recursion, a fake-world created entirely by those inhabiting it, who journey there from the real world, which itself may not be real. Or is it? Teasing logic like that permeated the whole thing, and I only barely understood it myself.

There was dinosaur wrestling. And pet tigers. I should speak about that. I dream things like that a lot. Rarely does it make sense, but it made a lot of sense last night. I wrote four pages this morning, and in the process I figured out how to write the story—I think. I’ve never written a choose-your-own-adventure story of any length, and I think I wrote the last one when I was four. I wouldn’t know where to start. I suppose I could start at the beginning.

It’s harder than it sounds.

2 replies on “Writing of Dreaming”

Once upon a time the four year old boy dreamed of tigers. At least he thought it was a dream, so he never believed he himself would live with tigers. They weren’t pet tigers though, since how can anyone really possess a wild thing such as a tiger. The tigers and the boy lived together in a jungle near a southern sea. The tiger had spent many long months on a raft, but that’s a story Pi has already told. This boy had made the acquaintance with the tiger in the jungle near his family’s home. It all started when …

Used to be, if you clicked that last sentence, it took you to a different place. A utopia: in fact. I started a new blog just to keep track of all the writing I would do. I called it “oneirotopia,” the land of the dreamer. It was that good of dream. But the options kept multiplying, the implications kept coming, the spiral tower rising higher and higher until it collapsed from the weight of it’s own imagining. I never really wrote anything. The notes I took, however…

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