. . . muttered the ogre

I have often had dreams of futility, which I take to be a sign of depression. For example: there are many scraps of paper on the floor, and I have to find a specific one, but I cannot read.

This morning I had a mild one. I had breakfast at an outdoor restaurant, chatted with the waiter, returned to where I parked my car; it was not there. I later found it a block away, but blocked in by a parked truck. I used my car key to unlock something that released a rope so that the truck (now a trailer) rolled down the street, bumping into another trailer which bumped a third before they all came to rest. But now my car had vanished. I thought, this is too absurd, I’m dreaming. I sat on a bench and said, when I open my eyes that brick building yonder will be something else. It did change but, before I could take in the new scene, something pulled my hair from behind; when I turned to see who or what, I woke up.

Being aware of dreaming, however briefly, is new to me, or quite rare.