My Nightmares are Modern Art.

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Have you ever woken up at 3:17am, soaked in sweat, heart thumping like a drum solo at a funeral, and think, “Well, that was unnecessarily cinematic”? I had a dream last night that my tax return came to life and started dating my ex. They were very happy together. I was the third wheel, watching them sip lattes and laugh about my emotional deductions.

Nightmares aren’t dreams gone wrong. They’re unpaid interns from your psyche, trying experimental theatre on your frontal lobe. One minute you’re flying, the next you’re naked in a Tesco Express, trying to explain to a security guard why your teeth are made of spaghetti.

And the worst ones? The bureaucratic ones. Not monsters, not murderers just endless corridors, broken printers, and a man named Clive telling you your passport photo looks “too smug.” I once had a nightmare where I was trapped in a Zoom call with 400 people, all named Steve, and every time I spoke, they muted me and sent a calendar invite for a meeting that had already happened.

You know what Freud said? Doesn’t matter. He was probably dreaming about cigars and blaming his mother. My nightmares are more modern. They involve Wi-Fi outages, autocorrect betrayals, and trying to explain sarcasm to a chatbot named Kevin.

So tonight, I’ll sleep with one eye open and a cricket bat by the bed. Not for burglars for metaphors. Because if my subconscious tries another interpretive dance about my unresolved childhood, I’m swinging.


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