Thoughts in English Class

I was in my english class, bored out of my skull, and this is what I wrote instead of taking notes:

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I live halfway between my real life and my dream life. When I take my shower in the morning, I spend the time grasping at my memories -- seeing which ones fall away and which ones I can keep my hands around. Unfortunately, this means that I can never be sure what is a dream and what is reality until about 10am.

My dreams are in technicolor with dolby surround sound and comfy seats. Real life is a 13-inch black and white TV with bunny ears and crappy reception. My dreams have three acts with sub-plots, villians, heroes, and a wacky neighbor. Life is reruns of a cheesy soap opera you saw 10 years ago. You can't quite remember exactly what happens next, but you're never quite surprised by its convolutions and plot twists.

Would I trade my real life for the small world inside my head? Maybe. Lord knows I tried, but it didn't work out well for me. What's worth more: entertainment or the truth? Are the two mutually exclusive? And how true are my dreams, for that matter? They have more internal logic than the real world, so I suppose that's a good argument against my dreams. Life, on the whole, is not internally consistent.

I love my dreams. They make me laugh, they make me cry, but in the end, I can't share them in all of their colorful glory. Pinning them down takes away their luster. It's like listening to that song you adored in the summer between your junior and senior years, but haven't heard since then, and when you hear it, something is missing. The song no longer sounds like sunshine and freedom, it sounds like over-engineered pop from the early 90s, cotton candy light and cringeworthy. You remember it had these mind-blowing lyrics that, like, totally changed your life, man, and now it makes you laugh at its treacly-sweet platitudes.

So how do I share the stories my brain entertains itself with during my nightly collapse into unconsciousness? How do I take these gossimer strands and weave them into something I can hold up and see how the light shines through it? Movies? My dreams *are* cinematic. Music? They *are* lyrical. Writing? I *am* lazy, and that *is* the easiest way to share things these days.

Unfortunately, it seems like quantum mechanics: the moment you observe them, you change their quality. Dreams are their own medium, and no other will do.