July 2025, 17 Minutes

We Are Such Stuff

I don’t know about you, but I actually hate dreaming. Okay, hate is a tad too strong a word choice there, but the point remains – of dreaming, I am not a fan. After a night of heavy dreaming, I invariably wake up feeling groggy and cranky, and both sides of the bed are just wrong.

The dreams don’t have to be bad, they just have to be intense, vivid. When this occurs, they leave behind a kind off emotional static that lingers as a hum in the background for the rest of the day. All this to say, I can do without them. Or, at least I think I can.

Consequentially, I work on reducing my dreamtime, preferring the science-backed approaches. I’ll dive a bit deeper in those waters a bit later, but first let’s give this whole thing a bit of geometry.

I’ll begin in my favourite place - Clarification Station. When I refer to my displeasure at dreaming, I’m not using the word in the metaphorical or romantic sense here, but the literal sense - what the body does in a state of sleep. The word’s current meaning was not intended as such: its origin is Old English (as in, 6th-7th century) and was brought to Britain by Germanic peasant farmers. It had nothing to do with sleep or visions initially. It first meant joy, mirth, music, or revelry, and I think that’s just lovely. The modern connotation of dream was probably influenced by the Norse invasions beginning in the 8th century. The Old Norse draumr, which did mean a sleep-dream (inappropriate “footnote” slap bang in the middle of the text: when researching this, got briefly excited, my mind making peripheral connections between these words and dram, the term for a whiskey measurement, especially used in Scotland and Ireland. There is no connection, and it makes sense that no such connection would exist – dram actually comes to us aaaaallll the way from the currency of the ancient Greeks, the drachma, turning from money to weight and measure {which so often provides the basis for currency value}. It would have been a cool little thing, if dram was derived from dream, but alas, drams do not always come true).
Interestingly, if we go even further back, to the proto days, the days of beginnings, the word takes on a different meaning again, one that is actually quite sinister: draumaz: to deceive, to damage, or to harm. This suggests dreams may have once been associated with delusion or danger. This is a fascinating insight into our younger (older?) selves, how we saw the world as a place of inherit danger, and how our lack of understanding of the inner self lead to suspicion and superstition.

The Shape of Dreaming

It is sometimes assumed that the brain powers down during sleep, but it’s actually highly active, sometimes more so than when we are awake. Rapid Eye Movement (REM) is the stage of sleep in which dreams typically occur. REM is the part of the sleep cycle characterised by rapid eye movements (gotcha), vivid mental imagery, and heightened brain activity.

Dreaming typically begins around 90 minutes into the sleep, when REM kicks in, and recurs in roughly 90-minute intervals throughout the night. Brain scans show that during REM, areas related to emotion, memory, and visual processing - especially the limbic system (i.e. the behaviour brain), including the amygdala (linked to fear and emotion), and the hippocampus (associated with memory) - are activated to an intense degree. In contrast, the prefrontal cortex, responsible for logic, planning, and self-awareness, becomes less active. This may explain why dreams often lack coherent structure and why surreal or impossible events seem normal within the dream world. Another way to look at this is that when dreaming, the evolutionarily newer parts of our brain disengage, and the older, hindbrain powers up and takes over (Hindbrain Take the Wheel).

(Bear with me; it’s about to get a bit list-y.)

Over the past several decades, scientists have posited a range of theories to explain why we dream, each offering a different perspective on the function - or lack thereof - of dreaming. One of the earliest and most influential is the Activation-Synthesis Theory, proposed by Hobson and McCarley in 1977, which postulates that dreams are the brain’s attempt to make sense of random electrical signals generated by the brainstem during REM sleep. According to this view, the cortex “synthesises” this activity into a narrative, meaning dreams serve no deeper function; they are merely byproducts of neural noise. Critics, however, argue this does not account for the emotional intensity or recurring symbolism of many dreams; the feeling that dreams mean something.

In contrast, Threat Simulation Theory, introduced by Antti Revonsuo (I recognise a Finnish name without needing Google) in 2000, suggests dreams evolved as a survival mechanism, allowing us to rehearse responses to danger in a safe, virtual space (think: visualisation). The frequent presence of threats such as being chased or attacked supports this, though, of course, not all dreams are fear-based, which raises obvious doubts about its universal applicability. Though I do not subscribe to this particular theory, it is the one that most interests me. Whenever I think of it, I picture some homo habilis snug in a cave somewhere perched above a great grassland, catching a few hours before dawn, its mind alive with panthera’s, sabre-toothed cats, and oversized bird that could snap up a cavebaby with ease, threatening the numbers of an already precarious young species. Maybe the small creature tosses a bit, wakes with a start, hairy fists balled, the new day ready to be faced.

Revonsuo’s hypothesis also begs the question: when did we first dream? Who among our ancestor first experienced the inner phenomena, and how did they react? Whoever they were, they were, I believe, truly The Blessed.

Another line of thought, the Memory Consolidation Theory, proposes that dreaming helps the brain sort, strengthen, and integrate new information, with the hippocampus and neocortex interacting during both REM and non-REM sleep. This theory is backed by lab studies linking REM to improved memory, though it too is limited by the fact that many dreams seem unrelated to recent learning. This is where the myth of learning a new language on tape while sleeping came from. The Emotional Processing Theory builds on this, arguing that dreams help regulate and integrate emotions, particularly those stemming from stress or trauma. As well as activating the limbic system, REM is known to reduce stress hormones such as norepinephrine, and many dreams do reflect unresolved emotional material. However, it remains unclear whether dreams actively process emotions or simply mirror them.

More speculative is the Reverse Learning Theory, proposed by Crick and Mitchison in 1983, which sees dreaming as a form of mental housekeeping that discards unnecessary data, akin to defragmenting a computer hard drive; but, this theory lacks strong empirical support, and may be the scientifically weakest of all those covered here. The Continual Activation Theory, proposed by Jie Zhang, views dreaming as part of the brain’s need to stay partially active during sleep to maintain memory and cognitive networks, tying dreams to the brain’s default mode network. Similarly, the Predictive Processing Theory frames dreaming as the brain running internal simulations to anticipate possible futures and test predictions, drawing parallels to how AI models “dream” through simulated data.

Finally, some researchers support the Epiphenomenon Hypothesis, which argues that dreams serve no purpose at all and are merely an inert byproduct of brain activity, like a screensaver that looks flashy but actually does nothing. Honestly, as funny as this theory is, it seems terribly unlikely from an evolutionary perspective – why would our sleeping bodies expend so much energy on something so…pointless?

Maybe these makes senses to you, or maybe they read like just-so stories Kipling would be proud of. My view is that the truth probably lies somewhere in between all of these ideas, and no one theory quite captures the truth – yet.

We are Jung at Heart

I’m a Jungian. I don’t have the required qualifications to say it in any professional sense, but intellectually I am aligned to the Swiss navigator of the human experience, the man who believed dreams were telegrams from the soul, mailed at midnight.

Unlike Freud, Carl Jung’s theory of dreams is one of hope, not of despair, doubt, self-suspicion I gotta give Freud some literary credit here, though: “the royal road to the unconscious” is, as metaphorical noun phrases go, right up there.

Jung viewed dreams not as meaningless byproducts of brain activity, nor as disguised wish-fulfilment, but as vital expressions of the unconscious mind. Therefore, dreams serve a compensatory function, offering insight into aspects of the psyche that the conscious mind ignores or represses.

This runs a strong counter to Freud, who emphasised personal desires and repressed sexuality, proposing instead that dreams use a symbolic language rooted in the collective unconscious – the universal layer of the human psyche populated by archetypes. These archetypal images emerge in dreams to guide individuals toward individuation, the process of integrating the conscious and unconscious self into a more complete and balanced identity. Jung emphasised that dreams should not be interpreted literally, but metaphorically, as the psyche’s way of expressing inner truths. For instance, dreaming of death might not predict a physical event, but rather symbolise psychological transformation or the end of a phase in life.

In essence, Jung saw dreams as purposeful, intelligent messages (but not from the Gods; see below); "a little hidden door," he wrote, "in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul." Interpreting them was, in his view, a necessary dialogue between the ego and the deeper, often neglected parts of the self.

…

Across cultures and centuries, dreams have been understood not merely as private mental events, but as portals to divine messages, prophecy, and creative inspiration. In the ancient world, dreams often carried sacred or supernatural weight. In the Epic of Gilgamesh - one of the earliest recorded texts; a beaten-to-shit 10th hand copy sits proudly on my bookshelf - dreams foretell danger and guide the hero’s journey. Gilgamesh’s dreams are interpreted by Enkidu, suggesting a belief in specialised knowledge and the dream’s coded meaning. Similarly, in the Book of Genesis, Joseph famously interprets Pharaoh’s dreams of fat and lean cows as a prophecy of famine. These narratives show how dreams once functioned as oracular communication, with the sleeping mind seen as a site of contact between the human and the divine.

The Greeks of old thought of dreams as messages from the gods. Not always, mind, but the possibility remained, and in that possibility, much investigation occurred. Hermes, the flight-footed courier of Olympus’ dream messages would oftentimes be found transporting missives containing prophetic words across the heavens, messages offering guidance, warnings, or commands.

Homer was all about this noise. In The Iliad, Zeus sends a deceptive dream to Agamemnon to influence the war:

“Listen to me now, Dream of evil, I’m sending you to the swift ships of the Achaeans.
Go straight to the hut of Agamemnon... Tell him to arm the long-haired Achaeans at once,
for now he can take Troy...”

Cheeky, cheeky.

Similarly, In The Odyssey, Homer tells us how Penelope, getting her analysis on, speaks of “two gates” through which dreams pass - one of horn (true dreams) and one of ivory (false dreams):

“Stranger, dreams are hard to interpret, and not all come true.
There are two gates for our evanescent dreams,
one is made of ivory, the other of polished horn.
Dreams that pass through the ivory are deceptive,
bringing words that are unfulfilled.
But those that come through the gate of horn speak truth
to the one who sees them.”

Emphasising the universality of dream symbolism, down in Australia, the pagan Aboriginal concept of “The Dreaming” (or Dreamtime) is not about sleep but rather refers to a timeless spiritual realm from which all creation emerges. In this worldview, ancestral beings dreamed the land, animals, and people into existence. Dreams are thus part of a sacred cosmology, linking past, present, and future in a continuous mythic narrative.

How about artistically? In all honesty, where to start? It is the animating metaphor of so much artistic creation, spanning the entire time we’ve spent on this planet.

In (more contemporary than Homer that is) Western literature, no figure engaged with dreams as richly or as often as William Shakespeare (nodded to in the title of this work), who repeatedly blurred the line between dream and reality. In Hamlet, the famous soliloquy - "To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub" - reveals the prince’s existential fear that dreams may persist beyond death, raising the possibility that even sleep offers no true escape. Obviously, it would be remiss not to mention the play of dream logic he wrote: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, his whimsical tale where lovers, fairies, and actors collide in a magical forest, blurring love, illusion, and reality under the mischievous spell of unreal chaos.

It’s not limited to Ol’ Bill, however. Authors such as Franz Kafka and Haruki Murakami have created works that often unfold like dreams: disjointed, symbolic, eerie. Kafka’s The Trial and The Metamorphosis reflect phantastic reasoning where events follow an internal, often absurd order, untethered from conventional reality. A man is arrested without explanation; another wakes up as a giant insect. Their logic is not logical, but it resonates with something deeper, something psychic, emotional, even mythic. Similarly, Murakami’s novels - Kafka on the Shore, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World - frequently shift between waking and dream states, suggesting that the boundary is porous, if not entirely fictional. His characters drift through liminal spaces, borderlands of the real, often unsure whether they’re dreaming, remembering, or hallucinating.

In fact, it could be argued that the entire genre (or, if you prefer, subgenre) of Magical Realism is an earnest attempt to write about dreams. Writers like Gabriel García Márquez, Isabel Allende, and Salman Rushdie weave everyday reality with inexplicable, surreal events: ice machines in the jungle, ghosts at dinner tables, women ascending into the sky. These are not framed as dreams per se, but as extensions of a worldview where dream-logic and myth live just beneath the surface of the ordinary. Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is a dream of time itself; it’s cyclical, fluid, tragic. Further to that, Italo Calvino crafts narratives that are less stories than guided reveries. They combine a nonlinear timeframe with an atmosphere heavy on the symbolism. Stylistically similar, Jorge Luis Borges frequently treated dreams not just as aesthetic experiences but as metaphysical puzzles, blurring the dreamer and the dream, the map and the territory, if you will. His short story The Circular Ruins ends with the chilling realisation that the protagonist, who believes he has dreamed another man into existence, is himself a dream, thus finding himself an ontological loop pulled straight from the unconscious (Looper and its predecessor Primer were strongly influenced by this take on the lemniscate, adding hard science to the mixture before pressing “blend”).

Even modern science fiction and cinema nod heavily to dream mechanics. Think of Philip K. Dick, whose protagonists (e.g., in Ubik or Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?) routinely question the nature of reality, memory, and self. Or Christopher Nolan’s Inception, which literalises dreams as layered, navigable architectures, the characters creating, with their minds, spaces where time stretches and true identity dissolves with the melting of dreamt stone and steel.

Accordingly, these should not just be seen as narrative devices, but as pulling the reader out into deeper waters, where thinking may be replaced by feeling, where linear logic gives way to symbolic resonance, and where meaning emerges not through explanation but through atmosphere, intuition, and emotional undertow. Hence the dream becomes a literary spell, cast by the writer, to liquify the hard brains of the reader.

Now, lest we stray, this is not a licence: an editor’s nightmare is a story that begins with a dream sequence that has not been earned. It’s cheap and filthy, but not in the charming way. It just dirties up the story you are trying to tell. I would suggest not to do that. Ever, not ever, not even once. I don’t mean to tub-thump, but you will thank me later.

In the first half of 20th century, the Surrealist movement placed dreams at the very centre of art, rejecting rationalism and embracing the subconscious as a source of truth. They were chiefly by Freud’s fresh theories of the unconscious (particularly his Interpretation of Dreams). Surrealists sought to bypass conscious control and access the deeper layers of the psyche. Artists like Salvador Dalí, Max Ernst, and René Magritte created vivid, irrational dreamscapes filled with melting clocks, levitating stones, eyeless faces, faceless eyes, and dislocated bodies, all rendered in hyper-realistic detail that heightened their dreamlike uncanniness.

For the Surrealists, dreams were not interruptions of reality but revelations of a deeper, more authentic stratum of human experience. As André Breton, the movement’s founder, wrote in his 1924 Surrealist Manifesto, the aim was to resolve the contradictory conditions of dream and reality into “an absolute reality, a super-reality” - or, if preferred, surréalisme. They believed the dream state held the key to creative liberation, where the ego could be dissolved and desire, fear, and fantasy could speak freely, unedited by reason or social taboo. To these pioneering artists, the dream was not a random hallucination, but a truth-telling engine of creation.

The idea persists beyond art. In modern culture, dreams continue to function metaphorically: as ambitions (“the American Dream”); as escapes (“living the dream”); or as hauntings of what might have been (“I dreamed a dream…”). They embody our desires and our disillusionments, a psychological and cultural area where personal and collective myths are projected and reshaped. We speak of “dream jobs” and “dream homes,” idealised futures that carry both hope and the quiet pressure of expectation.

Overall, we see a tripart pull; the scientific, the psychological and the artistic (one could also substitute romantic here). These three domains do not merely coexist but tug at the phenomenon of dreaming from different directions, each offering its own method of inquiry and its own form of truth.

The scientific approach seeks to quantify and explain, to map brainwaves and chemical signals, to reduce dreams to functions. It is empirical, methodical, grounded in observable evidence. The psychological approach, by contrast, deals in symbols, shadows, and inner landscapes. It is the realm of Freud’s wish-fulfilment and Jung’s archetypes. It asks what dreams mean, rather than how they occur. Finally, the artistic pull treats dreams not as problems to be solved but as experiences to be felt. Here, dreams are metaphors, mysteries, muses. Art resists the urge to pin down fact, and instead amplifies the ambiguity of dreams, turning them into films, poems, paintings, and myths.

Now, imagine the dreamer as a prisoner in Plato’s Cave (a seemingly busy place, without much circulating fresh air – I will lead you to make your own conclusions). The scientist watches the brain from outside, tracking electrical flickers across the cave wall. The psychologist sits beside the dreamer, interpreting the shadows, trying to trace them back to their emotional source. But the artist steps into the cave and dances with the shadows, refuting the pull of explanation and instead making something beautiful (or, let’s face it, maybe terrible) out of the darkness. All three methods are to me valid; none is complete on its own, and their interplay, in my opinion, enhance the truth of each.

Despite their differences, what does unite these approaches is the sense that dreams matter, that they are not disposable, not noise, not simply nighttime static. Holding onto this understanding is key to gaining a better consideration of the human experience.

Island of Dreams

If I may say so, the Irish are a dreamy bunch.

Historically, in the Irish and broader Celtic traditions, dreams and visions were not simply private, fleeting experiences. Instead, they were mist-made bridges to the Otherworld, omens, or sacred encounters with the divine.

In early Irish mythology, the line between waking and dreaming was often blurred. The ancient tales of the island frequently include dream-visions that function as prophecy or revelation. For example, in the Mythological Cycle, the figure of Cathbad the druid in The Conception of Conchobar has a prophetic dream that foretells the birth of a great king, Conchobar mac Nessa, and shapes the decisions of the characters. Similarly, in the Ulster Cycle, the epic Táin Bó Cúailnge contains dream-visions that foreshadow war and death, such as Queen Medb’s consultation with druids and omens before launching her campaign. In The Dream of Oengus (Aisling Óenguso), the god Oengus dreams of a beautiful maiden and becomes lovesick. His dream sets off a quest that reveals not fantasy, but destiny, as the woman turns out to be a real figure bound by magical transformation (the still common Irish female name “Aisling” means dream or vision).

More broadly, Celtic spirituality did not draw a hard boundary between sleep and waking, or between the natural and supernatural realms. The sidhe (the fairy folk of my beloved island) were believed to move between worlds, often appearing in dreams or luring dreamers into their realm through sleep, music, or enchantment. The concept of imramma, or mystical sea-voyages (as in The Voyage of Bran or The Voyage of Saint Brendan), often begin with a dream or vision that compels the protagonist to journey into the unknown. These are not dreams in the modern psychoscientific sense, but visionary experiences meant to convey wisdom, transformation, or spiritual trials. Even in folk tales, the dream is never “just a dream”, it is a message, a threshold, or a test. Thus, in subsequent, Irish culture, dreaming has historically carried weight: a dream could warn of death, indicate a future spouse, or reveal a hidden truth.

Getting more modern, writers such as W.B. Yeats (a man more influenced - and in turn influencing - by Celtic mythology, spiritualism, and the occult than perhaps any other) wrote extensively about dreams as vehicles of prophecy, aesthetic inspiration, and metaphysical insight. For the capital “A” Artist Yeats, and others like him – for instance his great pal, Lady Gregory – dreams weren’t psychological puzzles to decode, but glimpses into a hidden order beyond rational understanding. They were dancing with the shadows of Plato’s Aegean cave. Yeats may not have even been the most ethereal of Irish writers. Stephen Daedalus, Leopold Bloom and HCE (aka Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker aka Here Comes Everybody), the creations of James Joyce, were dreamlike figures crisscrossing the Edwardian Dublin dreamscape. High strangeness ensues and, as with all dreams manifested into a state of realness, the interpretations are vast and far from agreed upon.

You didn’t think I was gonna mention Yeats and dreams and fail to mention…

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Ireland – a land of saints, scholars and, it would seem, dreamers.

…

But back to my original dilemma: I don’t like to dream, and I would much prefer if io could reduce their occurrence. Of course, dreaming can’t be completely avoided, but perhaps it can be mitigated against.

Since, as we’ve established, most dreams occur during REM sleep, the obvious strategy is to suppress or reduce REM. Medically, certain SSRIs, as well as Benzodiazepine, can kick this cycle, as can regularly ingesting THC. I’m not endorsing these, however, as I’m looking for non-medicinal solutions.

People are most likely to recall dreams if they wake during or shortly after REM sleep, so minimising nighttime awakenings (through good sleep hygiene, regular sleep schedules, and avoiding late-night alcohol or blue light exposure {put that phone down}) can help reduce dream recall. Avoiding habits that reinforce dream memory, like keeping a dream journal or lying in bed thinking about dreams upon waking, can also gradually diminish how often dreams are remembered. Cooler sleep environments (around 16–18°C) may promote deeper non-REM sleep and reduce REM intensity, though this effect is subtle. Additionally, avoiding too much B vitamin in your diet, and heavy meals before bed, may decrease the likelihood of vivid dreams, as both have been linked to increased dream activity. Predictably, stimulants like caffeine can disrupt sleep. And, although regular physical activity improves overall sleep quality and may reduce sleep disturbances that cause frequent dreaming, partaking too close to bedtime can have the opposite effect.

Although the evidence is mixed, meditation and mindfulness practices may alter dream intensity or control. It certainly seems like it would have a positive effect, for whatever that is worth.

I suppose one could also go Full Nightmare on Elm Street style, pin the eyelids back and make your espresso with Red Bull, but I’m not sure how effective such a method would be (it didn’t seem to do those particular horny Ohio teenagers much good).

On the heavier side - and unrelated to my own experience - for those dealing with emotionally charged or traumatic dreams, stress reduction techniques like mindfulness meditation or Cognitive Behavioural Therapy for Insomnia (CBT-I) may help. Specific therapies such as Imagery Rehearsal Therapy (IRT) have also been shown to reduce the frequency and emotional impact of nightmares. I cannot attest to these, but for those interested, they may be worth doing some research on.

I’m going to end here with a cascade of question – questions, in my case, only I can answer. But perhaps you may also be able to ask yourself these questions, and answers hem for yourself.

Should I be more sympathetic of my unconscious mind, more understanding? Are these dreams necessary, or can I justify chasing them from my somnolent self? Would I sleep better (ahhh the peace) or would I lose some essential part of myself? Perhaps dreams are the raw material of meaning, stitched together by some silent storyteller deep inside. Can I risk turning off that inner phone? What if the call is important?

After all, what would I be without dreams?

…

The title of the piece is lifted from Shakespeare. Specifically, Prospero’s vivid imagination in the Tempest. The rightful Milanese duke reminds us that “we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” Perhaps what makes dreams so enduringly fascinating is that they mirror life itself - ephemeral, strange, symbolic and, crucially, unfinished. To dream is not only to sleep, but to participate in something deeply human: the act of meaning-making in the dark.

In the end, as the myriad of theories show, dreams are resistant to singular explanation. Whether viewed through the lens of neuroscience, as bursts of random neural activity or mechanisms for memory consolidation and emotional processing, or through cultural and literary traditions that see them as omens, visions, or sacred messages, dreams continue to elude full understanding. To me that’s ok. I don’t need to know everything.

So maybe don’t worry about it and, as Steven Tyler side, Dream On.

Photo credit: Ivan Oboleninov