This morning I awoke from one where I'd been spending time at a synagogue (never been in one in my life) to use the phone (?) and befriended an old man, who collapsed while we were walking around inside the building, talking, and I had to call for help. Paramedics had to come and revive him, and they told me he was in bad shape, so I went and got one of the wheelchairs that the synagogue had available, and I pushed him home. Later, I noticed my arms had tanned from the walk in the sun.
To someone outside my brain, this probably doesn't read too differently from any dream description I've ever posted, but for me, it's thin and frustrating. Usually there's a ton of detail that I'm trying to capture even as it fades, a rich but vaporous embroidery. With the dreams I've been having, the depth just isn't there. There is frequently a lost beginning to the sleep stories my brain would spin, but I know that the part before this that was only barely there by the time I woke was just as thin.
It's clear what's happening here: my unconscious is going hack writer. I anticipate some dark and stormy nights.