I’m a strange sleeper. Always have been. I’m sure my mother worried about my intelligence when I was young because she’d somehow find me, night after night, upside down, hanging off the bed, sleeping on the headboard, or using the nightstand as a pillow. I remember regularly having mornings where I’d wake up laying diagonal on my bed with my pillows under my feet and my head at the footboard with blankets nowhere in sight. Or even worse, waking up on the couch and not remembering why I was there. My mom calls me Tumbleweed.
These days there isn’t much rolling and flopping around on my bed at the wee hours of the morning, but I still dream. From the time I shut my eyes until I open them, there’s a storm of ridiculous plots and images flying through my head. It’s even common for me to have conversations with people around me in my sleep, and usually when I’m abruptly awoken I do the stereotypical “RANDOM MESSAGE THAT ISN’T RELEVEANT HERE” thing. Waking up at odd hours sweating bullets from a vivid and terrifying nightmare isn’t rare, either.
I’d like to think there’s some deeply logical, spiritually profound meaning to my dreams, but I doubt it.