Watercolor

My contacts seem to be fogging up, somehow, so perhaps I'm in the early stages of a mind-boggling hallucination. I'll add more as the situation progresses.

Actually, that's a lie. I'll just keep writing. You can't stop me, after all.

For the past month or so, I've divided my REM time between scatological dreams (the latest involved Brainerd's own Adam giving a White House press conference on nanotechnology while I used my press pass to unite an aging rock star with the shrooms his career so desperately needed) and eerily mundane, incredibly realistic dreams.

It's the latter that worry me, in a way. I've always had a bad memory, unless we're talking about conversations in grade school or whether something was on a right-hand or a left-hand page, and doubting the events I remember only makes my problem worse.

For example, we're scheming again, so as to get a good room next year, and for a week I thought I'd talked to Representative Man, my boss at the Lawrentian, during lunch at Lucinda's.

I tapped him on the shoulder and asked about his housing situation next year. He thought I wanted to live with him and it got mildly awkward after that. Like most of my mildly awkward moments, I can see this with crystal clarity.

But none of that happened. The Politician had to broach the subject late last week, because I wasn't sure if I already had. And I hadn't (though, on a less blatantly narcissistic note, the scheme wheels are in motion).

This is just one example. Usually, the dreams are much more trivial. I'll wake up thinking I did my homework or that my professor has cancelled class. I'll remember watching a show on my computer I still haven't seen.

O.k., that last one was a lie. But it will happen!

Rather than contemplate my senility, I've decided to explain it away. It's been a while since I've dreamt this often, and deja vu or something similar is bound to happen. Also, spring is responsible. And all the devil-white-sugar I've been eating recently.

And I'll throw in stress, because people are always willing to pretend to believe that someone is under a lot of stress.

(I'm not, as far as I can tell. Which means I'm not.)

Whatever the cause, the implications are a bit frightening. If my some of my memories are false, and I'm the sum of my experiences, then my perception of myself is false.

If these dreams continue, I'll have the odd luxury of actually watching myself become someone I'm not, or I'll wake up as a giant insect, or something.

I don't know. It's two-thirty, past my bedtime, and I should be dreaming bland confusing dreams by now. Goodnight.