We all have that one repetitive dream.
The looming shadow behind my headboard at fourteen-years-old
was a dementor coming to take my soul.
Which meant
I had been reading way too much Harry Potter.
Some dreams are reruns of life events,
However, altered to seem new.
That kid in the corner wore a green shirt
that day at the dojo, not orange.
Like déjà vu, but not.
Then there are the bizarre
border-line nightmare dreams.
The one where the Hoodwinked bunny
is a live toy, chasing me through a locked toy store,
where I’m the size of toys and toys are the size of humans.
Our dreams only make sense to us,
So then why do we insist
on telling our roommate about that dream
where the highway was like a rollercoaster
and the car drove on a loop, and we didn’t fall to our deaths?
Because it was so weird that
we needed someone else to share in the weirdness.
Because it was so scary that
we needed someone to console us.
Because it was so funny
we wanted to laugh with someone.
The dreams we have are as odd as we are,
as outrageous as our imagination,
and as confusing as life itself.