I had a really fitful night's sleep, surfacing into consciousness after every REM cycle. (This is how I sleep sometimes, especially when I'm in physical distress. Which is of course a continuous state of being on chemotherapy.) As is often the case with that sleep patterns, my dreams have a threaded commonality that extends from REM cycle to REM cycle.
I'm not even sure I can describe what I was dreaming about. It wasn't surreal, but the dreams were very crowded with imagery, color, people. In fact, crowding might have been the predominant theme. I was somewhere semitropical, surrounded by bougainvillea and and other bright flowers, at times crowded by children and their mothers in bright clothes, at other times struggling with traffic that consisted of classic cars in bright colors (sort of like an Andrew Niccol movie with the palette reversed). There was a slightly erotic episode when I encountered an old lover, there were extended bits about cooking, there was me jumping off a bridge into a river. And all of it was intensely, richly, fractally detailed across the senses, to the point of overwhelming. At one point I woke up in a state of frantic distress, breathing so rapidly and loudly that Lisa Costello woke up in fear for my health. I had to tell her I was not experiencing a seizure.
Sometimes my dreams are obvious garbage collection, the subconscious mind blowing the dust out of my mental and emotional buffers. Other times, they are obvious problem solving. Or obvious expressions of my anxieties and fears. Then, like last night, sometimes it seems like all the chocks were removed and my imagination went to the red line for no real reason I can understand. Not nightmares, mind you, just confusing.
If dreams are postcards from the subconscious, last night's dreaming was an ink spill in the postcard printing plant.