It’s so funny how dreams can creep into our minds like little bugs, and create their own little world in our heads. When we wake we think to ourselves, what a silly dream to have had. But as we sleep, there is nothing more real.

I don’t claim to remember all of the dreams that ever wafted through my noggin, but it always seems the more bizarre ones cling onto my brain and hold tight. There was a dream I had once, that I had to walk up a ton of stairs that were actually toilets(don’t judge).

The one I remember most was a reoccurring one in which I was Superman, but only when I had my eyes clenched shut. As soon as I opened them–to see who I was fighting off or saving–I would change back into a small, scared child. I’m sure there’s some psychological reasoning for that, but I’ll just ignore it for the time being.

I don’t know what most writers do when they have strange dreams with odd characters and bizarre locations, but I always tuck them away. I store them like little, golden nuggets, and wait for them to morph themselves into stories. Not all make such a grand transition, but I feel it’s important to remember our dreams.