Movies In My Head

Lots of people have dreams. And plenty have nightmares. Nothing unusual there.

I have nightmares. Loud, visually vivid devils that leave me feeling displaced when I wake up — like a sock missing its left one.

Now, PTSD lives in my head rent-free. I tried charging it rent, but it just laughed and slammed the door.

It’s that bugger that triggers the nightmares. My brain, you see, is trying to process the trauma. And not doing a great job of it.

I thought about firing it. But firing your own brain? Awkward. Needs more thought. Ironically.

The nightmares are like little horror films. I like horror films. Just not these ones. They’re surreal, weird, and traumatic in ways I can’t predict. Especially if they involve biscuits going missing.

I find myself wishing my mental director would make something more entertaining. A romantic comedy, maybe. Or at least a detective thriller where the biscuits are recovered.

So — why does this happen?

Because the dreams aren’t about what happened. They’re about how it felt.

And that feeling keeps dressing up in weird costumes, hoping I’ll finally recognise it and say: I see you. You can rest now.

There’s another thing. These movies no one wants always wake me up. Around 3am. Every damn time. I lie there, trying to make sense of the plot, which usually makes less sense than a spoon in a shoe rack.

Still, it could be worse. I could be dreaming about tea with no biscuits.

Ooh. The horror.

Anyway — if you’re in the crap movie club too, remember this:

They’re just brain farts.

Nothing more, nothing less.