When I was young (and never has that seemed so long ago as it does now) I would dream. When I was young, I had a job, and that is what I would dream about - work. Now that may seem a good thing, better at least, if my job had been sophisticated or exciting. I have been a waitress for as long as I can remember and I have always loved the job, but it doesn't make for good dream material. I would wake at absurd hours of the morning and night with panicked remembrances of forgotten condiments and refills unfilled. And I would lay in bed after waking and worry that the customer who left so horribly mistreated as to have gone without his mustard would only remember that single thing. Not the good food or the atmosphere, but the grievous lack of service.
It sounds pitiful, but it's the truth. Luckily, I don't forget things often, not in a working situation anyway. Perhaps that was a beneficial side effect of the dreams?
Now, I am unemployed, and not totally unhappily so, and I don't dream, or at least, I rarely remember it if I do. But when I do remember them, they are beautiful, and often bits of them find their way here, woven into my poetry. And if you're wondering what, if any, point there is to this entry, I suppose I'd have to say that it must be that I miss my work, or that I enjoy my new-found pleasant dreams - or maybe just that I wish I was sleeping more.