BlogCritics : To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come? — William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Dreams are the stuff of our own inner cinema. There we are free to deconstruct and reconstruct the stories of our lives, with an inner stream of consciousness that owes less to Faulknerian literary inclinations and more to our biggest waking influence: television and movies. In our dreams we are producers and directors, and sometimes the stars, of a never-ending cinematic story of, if not our lives, the way we subconsciously wish they would be or never could be. In our dreams, others may die, but we never do, always waking up at the moment of impact of the speeding train, the crush of the bullet against our skulls, the endless falling from the precipitous cliff into the somnambular abyss.