I don’t often remember my dreams. I’m not sure why; that’s just how it’s always been for me. And on the rare occasion I do remember one, it’s disturbing. Unsettling.
You can read past “dream” posts here, here, and here.
As I understand the basic idea of dreams, they’re basically our unconscious working to sort shit out while the rest of our brain is resting. Some people seem to have “happy dreams.” They get to fly around. Or fulfill some other waking fantasy.
Me? I get my spiteful, mean-spirited psyche poking at me.