The last several days something has happened to my dreams. I half remember them, especially  during the weekend when I don’t have to hurry in the morning. And they are… repetitive. I mean, I dream a sequence, and then I dream it again, but with some variation. And then I dream it again, with yet another variation. If I were to sum the dream up briefly, all the replays would be the same, but they are not. They are different in detail. I don’t think they go on like that all night. These are short sequences, so all the replays take place within one dream.

In the story I am still writing, the main character spends every night in a wide awake dream. The dreamworld he returns to is persistent: His day there is the night of his birth world, and the other way around. He goes to bed in one and wakes up in the other. But the Dreamworld quickly becomes the one he feels at home in: As he says, he was born into his first world by chance (that is what he thinks), but coming to the Dreamworld was a result of his own choices and efforts.

I don’t think this will happen to me, and I also don’t think I was thrown into this world by chance. I just mention it because I write about dreams and then a change seems to be happening to my own dreams. It is not for nothing that we often use the word “dream” in a less literal meaning. Dreams extend into our waking life, and our waking life into our dreams – even when the two are very different, as they usually are for me. So also now: All three sequences this morning was about airplanes, which I haven’t ridden for decades.

I did think back to one of my rare plane rides some days ago, however: I remembered how beautiful the clouds looked from above, much more so than from below.  How do you explain that, dear orthodox Darwinist? Did we evolve from particularly high-flying birds, or on very high mountain tops? Or is it a social construct? Was I raised by angels, subtly taught the beauty of the world from on high? Well, perhaps that is not so far off…