dreams can come true
I bloody hope not. At least not the dream I had last night.
Before I go on, let me preface my remarks be saying I know how irritating it is when people tell you about their dreams. What’s that Dylan line?
At dawn my lover comes to me and tells me of her dreams
with no attempts to shovel a glimpse into the ditch of what each one means
Quite.
Unfortunately, I’m not your lover, it’s not dawn and the ditch of what this one means is pretty darn shallow. So, you’re for it.
The dream is simple: I’m midway through my long run and I come to a hill. At this point I’m running in a pack; a pack of super aggressive, nasty guys urging me on with pitchforks.
That’s all well and good, as I can keep up all-right. As the dream goes on, however, the hill gets steeper. So steep, it becomes more like a ladder, or a cliff. The nasty peleton don’t slow down though. Pretty soon I’m gasping for breath begging to be allowed to stop.
And then I wake up, ironically NOT in a pool of sweat.
Meaning: I’ve been doing too many Anderson street reps. (non Melbournites: Anderson street = particularly nasty hill on one side of the “tan” track, our most popular running spot).
Running
A set of Anderson street hill reps yesterday that obviously affected me powerfully on a subconscious level. On a physical level, my heart decided it was time to spontaneously exit the building by the nearest exit, and had to be forcibly restrained. 10k-ish.
Today, a mercifully flat lap of Albert Park lake, plus distance from work and back. Around 13k, I think.
Reduce the hill reps, or turn down the electric blanket and the spicy food- you be the judge.
take a pitch fork to bed with you and you can then be one of the mob poking some other poor dude
I used to have a flatmate who insisted on telling me about her dreams in excruciating detail, she also wrote very bad poetry, which she liked to share with me as well.
I moved out
It was either that or smother her in her sleep