In this other world, I’m a dream technician. Sounds fancy, right? Mostly I’m elbow-deep in people’s subconscious, fixing nightmares and debugging daydreams. It’s messier than you’d think.

My toolkit includes a flashlight that illuminates anxieties, a wrench for tightening loose memories, and a butterfly net for catching runaway thoughts. Last week, I had to perform emergency surgery on a nightmare. The dreamer’s fear of public speaking had mutated, spawning a horde of jeering, naked audience members. I clothed them in dream-fabric and gave them all social anxiety. Problem solved.

My house is a mess of dream debris. Bottled nightmares line the shelves, glowing faintly. I use them as night lights. Jars of distilled déjà vu clutter the kitchen counter. They make excellent coffee creamer.

My own dreams? I am not allowed to have them. They say it’s for our own protection, but I suspect it’s more about control.

You see, dream technicians are walking conduits of the collective unconscious. Our minds are like open channels, constantly buzzing with the hopes, fears, and wild imaginings of everyone else. If we were to dream, the results would be… catastrophic.

So instead, we’re fitted with dream suppressors. Tiny chips implanted at the base of our skulls, humming softly as we sleep, keeping our minds blank and quiet. I find it maddening.

But here’s the secret: I’ve learned to dream while awake.

As a lucid dreamer, I’ve discovered a loophole in the system. During my waking hours, I slip into a state of controlled reverie. It’s subtle – a coworker might mistake it for deep concentration. But in those moments, I’m weaving dreams in real-time, constructing vibrant inner worlds that the dream suppressor can’t touch.

I call it “day-dreaming,” but it’s so much more. It’s rebellion. It’s freedom. It’s art.