The older I get and the weirder life becomes, I start to see myself empathizing with supporters of simulation theory.
I won’t begin to pretend I understand the purported science behind the hypothesis, but experiencing dreams and déjà vu seem to make such conjecture plausible. Glitches in the system or processing errors, if you will.
I am quite the prolific dreamer and have been most of my life. In college I kept a dream journal, and back in Twitter days, I had a poorly maintained side account (username: dreammatter) where I documented my subconscious adventures in 240 characters or less.
My morning retellings to Naz are met with laughter, awe, and a flabbergasted wtf. I lament not being able to draw because the fantastical nature of my dreams would make wonderful fodder for illustrations or paintings.
Dreams are bewildering and surreal and chaotic and yet sometimes realistic… almost like today’s timeline, just in an alternate, abstract form. But how and why does my brain thrust me onto such wild rides overnight? If I choose not to subscribe to the neuroscience explanation of memory consolidation, what is the origin of this whimsical imagery?
All this to say, last night I dreamt about our dear Barb. Only, she was the size of a hamster. Only, she was… flat. And she preferred to slumber inside a book like a living, breathing bookmark. She was old and her days were numbered, so I would open the book, checking for signs of life. Once I detected an exhalation, I’d tuck her back in between the pages, and then turn to Naz, wondering aloud, “When do you think it’s time?”
All of these events happened in real life. Only, Barb was actually four pounds. Only, she burrowed in a plush bed under a mountain of blankets. Only, I was able to put my full hand on her belly, waiting to feel its rise and fall with each breath. And then I would turn to Naz and ask, “When do you think it’s time?”