Extra Mature Cheddar: The Dream

Good day to the world.

If you’ve read the preface in which I explained the concept and format of this blog, you’ll know that what I’m doing here is eating cheese before bedtime, an act that causes nightmares according to folklore, and recording the dreams that I experience as a result. This is the second part of the update for extra mature cheddar, and the one in which I detail the dream itself.

If you hadn’t, then you know now, and are no doubt utterly captivated and will be checking for updates regularly from this point onwards.

The results tonight were as expected, which is a promising start to the proceedings. I experienced quite a long and winding dream, only some of which I can clearly remember. I will describe it as best as I can manage.

At first, I’m simply dreaming of a perfectly ordinary day. Morning has just broken, and I’m taking my sweet time in slithering out of bed and getting something to eat. (Admittedly, getting out of bed in the early morning doesn’t exactly constitute an “ordinary day” for me, as I usually prefer late afternoon, but nevertheless.)

After a while I decide to take a shower, but when I enter, I misstep and end up slipping on the wet floor. By reacting quickly, I am able to stop myself from falling over, but not in the way that one might expect.

I discover that by holding my breath, tensing my muscles and “pulling” myself upwards, I am able to float in mid-air. When I slipped, I did this on reflex, but after only a couple of tries I find that I am able to control it easily and naturally.

So I spend a while just hovering around, getting the hang of it, seeing how high I can go…the same kind of things I expect almost anyone would do upon suddenly discovering that they can defy gravity, at least before they try to devise a way to make money off it and use it to pick up women.

Once I’ve finished experimenting, I go outside to attend to whatever it was I had to do, using my ability to hover as my means of locomotion. Can you blame me? However, for some reason, nobody at all seems to find this in the least bit unusual. I’m floating over everyone’s heads in the middle of a crowded street and not a single person so much as bats an eyelid.

As odd as this is, I don’t bother trying to call attention to myself. Perhaps it’s for the best. After all, if the X-Men series has taught us anything, it is that anyone who displays any even remotely superhuman ability will immediately get all but disowned by everyone they care about and forevermore be treated as though they were the bane of human society.

At this point there’s a transition. I’ll be using this term a lot to refer to a significant and abrupt change of circumstance that I can’t explain. It’s possible that there were some intervening events leading up to it that I don’t remember, or perhaps it just suddenly happened. With dreams, you never really know.

Regardless, I am now in some kind of underground facility, leading a small, elite squad of troops into enemy territory. The whole thing feels a lot like a first-person shooter; I can even see a little red crosshair floating in front of me.

We come to this huge room, about the size of a football stadium and completely bare apart from two staircases leading to the door we came in through and one on the opposite wall, with two long ledges leading off in the other direction.

Suddenly, an alarm goes off, and a group of “enemies” (I don’t know who they’re supposed to be; they look like generic soldiers from any World War II-based game you’d care to come up with, so I’ll assume Nazis) bursts through the door. We’re able to gun them down fairly quickly, and here I discover that shooting is remarkably easy. I mean, there’s really nothing to it at all as long as your gun is as light as air, has no recoil, and you’ve got a perfectly-aligned crosshair in your field of vision telling you exactly where to aim.

However, almost as soon as we’ve dealt with this group, another comes storming through, larger than the first. The process repeats itself over and over again, with the enemies becoming tougher and more numerous, until eventually the whole room is filled with a horde of nigh-indestructible robots that look a lot like AT-ST walkers, except they have wine casks for the body. And more guns.

I can only conclude that this means the Nazis are somehow linked to the Empire, and that the true agenda of the Sith was...aggressive vinification or something.

For some reason, though, none of them fire, and we end up wasting most of our ammunition on them in what was supposed to be a screaming, kamikaze frenzy before realising that we could just squeeze between them and walk to the other side of the room unimpeded, albeit feeling a little stupid.

I have to admit that had I been in that situation in reality, I’d have been sorely tempted to come back with a very long rope, stretch it along the length of the room and have two people hold on to the ends and charge forward simultaneously, thereby tripping all the robots up and causing them to explode violently in true Star Wars fashion, presumably showering a wide radius with vintage wine in the process and making connoisseurs everywhere cringe. Alas, it was not to be.

Although I’m fairly sure I didn’t wake up at this point, I remember everything that happened afterwards too vaguely to commit it to writing, so this is where my recollections must end.