A memory of a dream, or a dream of a memory?

I’ve recently read a couple of friends posting about their dreams, and I thought I would recount this little story, which I find a little spooky.

I don’t generally remember dreams, but some years back, I used to have recollections of some very vivid ones. One recurring dream was of discovering a whole secret wing of my flat (apartment). At the time I was living in a flat comprising of the ground floor of an small Victorian house – a large lounge, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. In the dream, it was the same flat, but in a much bigger house, and I would discover that by going down some stairs I had several more large rooms. I dreamt of this several times, and each time I recall being pleased, but doing no more than think “these rooms will be useful when I need them”. In another related dream, I had the knowledge of the new-found rooms, but either couldn’t remember how to get to them, or had lost the key to a vital door that would let me in.

These dreams, if they happened at the time I remember them, would have been 10 or more years ago, and I havn’t given them any thought since, until the other evening, when it all came back to me.

However, here’s the twist. As I say, I haven’t thought about these dreams for years. But when I remembered it again the other night, my memory of that time was that I had the recurring dreams, but then discovered that the rooms were actually there – that the rooms existed in real life. It was a very clear recollection, even though I know it is quite ridiculous.

So what I am wondering is this. Were these dreams of 10 years ago which I had just remembered, or is it possible that the other night I *dreamt* the whole thing – of having the recurring dreams, together with the rooms being real, hence my confusion? Has reading about other people’s dreams put the idea of dreaming into my subconscious?

It’s something that amuses me, rather than concerns me, especially as I only recently re-read Christopher Priest’s “The Affirmation”, where the protagonist’s real and imagined life blurs and interchanges. I guess the book itself may be another vector for my imagination.

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