However, when I was a teenager and into my early twenties, I had dreams that were so vivid, not only in the setting, the stage, the world, but also emotionally and psychologically, so much so that these dreams seemed more authentic than my waking life. In these dreams I had memories that were clearer and deeper than in my waking life.
It’s hard to express just how authentic these dreams were, there was nothing dream-like about them, and the effect was that when I woke up I felt I had now fallen asleep and entered a dream, so called real life now seemed like the children’s drawing of reality.
I didn’t have these dreams every night, perhaps once a month. In the dreams I was in high school and college, as I was in my real life, but I had a different family, different friends. I knew these people better than I knew the people in my waking life.
The one disturbing element of the dreams was I was aware I had murdered a girl. I would often in these dreams visit the spot where I buried her body. I had already murdered the girl when the dreams began, but I could remember what she looked like. She was similar in appearance to Gidget-era Sally Field.
When I woke I was convinced I had murdered a girl. As I said, the dreams stopped when I was in my early twenties. Yet the dreams were so hyper-authentic, all the remaining years of my life I have waited for the police to show up at my door and arrest me for murder.
It’s been forty years since I’ve had one of those dreams. I miss that world. I had a better life. I was happier, even though I was a murderer. Yes, in the dreams I remembered the reason I murdered the girl, but I won't say because most people would probably think it reflects an aspect of my *real* personality, which it doesn't. Anyway, I’ve done worse things in this life.
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