When I was younger, I dreamed all the time about accidentally killing my friends and family because of clumsy mistakes. Like trying to help Grandma down the stairs and tripping myself so she ended up falling down to the bottom. Another one involved my future wife getting impaled on a fence post. I cannot remember how I managed that one. But they were always my fault.
Then there were the ones where I died myself. The dreams normally didn't end when I died, either. I was just kicked from whatever I was doing before I died into nothing. And I'd just float there in utter silence and darkness and scream for someone to answer and no one ever did.
And then maybe I'd finally wake up.
I hated dreaming. The best nights were when I remembered nothing. My dreams aren't as teenage-angsty anymore, but they still aren't pleasant 99% of the time.
One kind of weird thing I've noticed, though: I have a much easier time falling asleep if I'm taking a nap on a Sunday or Saturday afternoon than I do trying to go to sleep at night. Why is that, I wonder?
