Inquisited.com

Normally, I pay a lot of attention to my dreams. I write them down first thing in the morning, draw similarities and patterns from previous nights, and reflect on them. I find it unfortunate that few other people do the same: after all, dreams are as much an integral part of our reality and existence as our waking life. Of course, some would dismiss this silly notion on the grounds that dreams aren’t “real”.

That would bring us to the deeply existential question of what we consider to be “real” in the first place. To me at least, living is about experiencing, and anything that brings about a new and unique experience is real enough.

Dreams speak to us, but only if we allow them to. Dreams or nightmares, they all have something to teach or show. But all that’s assuming that you remember your dreams at all, and I can’t if I’m too mentally fatigued which I have been for the past few months. Last night, the dreams returned. A weight has been lifted, and at long last we will dream again.

I’ve recently realized that my blogging patterns aren’t as erratic as I previously thought - my writing output seems directly correlated to bouts of melancholia and euphoria. When I’m pathologically happy (yes, it does happen), I tend to blog and emphatically argue my point on random social/scientific/political issues.When I’m melancholic, its much more introspective and personal. But its all the insipid emotion states in between that seem completely devoid of any creative potential. And unfortunately, much of my life exists precisely in that state which explains why this blog isn’t updated more frequently than it should.

But still, I’m glad to have discovered something about myself today, even if it was a “duh” moment that wasn’t particularly novel or exciting. Its good to know that even after 20-odd years you can still surprise yourself with the little things in life. Maybe the world isn’t so boring after all.