When I was a young warthog, I used to dream of flying just about every night. In fact, I remember
one conversation with my mom in which I insisted I could float around if I wanted to because my dreams were so lucid. One of my little projects while I've been traveling has been improving dream recall and have more participatory, lucid dreams. I figure if I am going to spend a third of my lifetime dreaming, I might as well make that time as interesting as possible.
I've gotten good at meditating in bed and detecting the moment when my sense of reality unhinges. My logic becomes disjointed and sometimes I see technicolor fractals growing under my eyelids. I am dreaming, but still aware that I am laying in my tent in New Zealand. I say to myself it's been forever since I've flown.
I sloughed off my sleeping bag, clambered out of the tent (taking care not to step on Bianca), and shot towards up towards the Milky Way. Soon I was flying high over the hills of Wilderland at an incredible speed. It was miserably windy, cold, and turbulent. My arms and legs goose-bumped, and my eyes got the umpleasant cold and dry feeling you get when you stick your head out of the car when driving on the highway. I thought, "Fuck this!", teleported back into my warm sleeping bag and I don't remember the rest of the dream.
Way to ruin a favorite pastime, subconscious.
