Several nights ago I had a dream that has mostly left my memory, but a small detail remains. I had rented an apartment somewhere and was poking around in the bathroom. Along with the usual fixtures, my bathroom featured several items of antiquated medical equipment. Most notably, an old-fashioned mercury sphygmomanometer was affixed to the wall above the toilet. There may also have been some probes or scales, and the lighting was low and vile and the atmosphere grim and clinical.
This was visually interesting (to my dream-eyes at least), but what struck me was the way in which dream-me interacted with her environment: I felt a pang of desire to photograph various elements of my bathroom and may have even imagined, within the dream, how I would steady the camera against myself to capture a clear image in the dim dankness. When I woke up I was annoyed that I could not photograph that which exists only in the ether of my sleeping mind. Though I usually seem to be played more or less by myself in my dreams (some girl with long dark hair, about five foot four), and often feel anxieties and sadnesses that are characteristic of waking-me, I don’t tend to exhibit much specific personality. I seem to be mostly an Every-Man, neutrally experiencing the dreamworld without the tics and mannerisms and ethics and interests that define me in real life. This dream was different.