“If the dream is a translation of waking life, waking life is also a translation of the dream.”
So I wonder what exactly it is that my subconscious is trying to tell me this week, or which is being translated and from where, with it’s string of bizarre and seemingly unrelated dream topics. In a previous post, I explained that in my dream I was, as I thought, late for my own surprise wedding, back in the homeland. And when I woke yesterday morning, I was slightly perturbed that the subject of my dreams had once again, been weddings.
This time I was with a ‘friend’, although in actual fact the woman was unknown to me, it involved rushing again, but to catch a very small plane, owned by Richard Branson, (who by the by, thought I was common, from a very brief conversation we had at the airfield office). There were left luggage cages, lost luggage (mine) and a matter of seconds to run onto the tarmac and get aboard once the luggage had been found – with the help of a nice chap called Trevor, sporting a greying walrus moustache. I was so exhausted, I was quite literally dragging myself along a red rope, as if on rollerskates, to where I needed to be. And the final destination? A wedding, although this time, not my own.
This morning I feel drained, after a third night of vivid dreams, in which a school friend I hope to see in September, died from a heart attack, and I found this out from the news, which was actually Facebook broadcasting on televisión. My mum was annoyed that I wanted to change the channel back from something nondescript to FBTV to confirm what I thought I’d seen.
Someone please put me out of my misery, and tell me what all this means. I feel like there is some kind of messsage trying to get out, but for the love of sweet baby Jesús, I have no idea what it is, or could be, and it’s driving me a bloody insane.
To quote one of the great sooth sayers of our time, Miss P. Hilton, “I am tired and emotional”, (though she rolls it out when she’s been papped, cracked off her t*ts).