The part that bothered me most was the dreams.
The dreams weren’t mine.
Now, a lot of the random thoughts that flicker through a sleeping person’s mind are indistinguishable from the white noise to me—those thoughts are off limits, I guess.
But when the sleeping mind puts together something like a narrative—a chain of thoughts, not just scattered ones—those I pick up. Whether I wanted to or not, at least within a certain range, the dreams of a living mind spread out like tentacles, stretching out, latching on, draining into me.
And I felt bad about it, because to the waking mind, those things are personal. Sure, some people share their dreams—but even if they don’t self-censor, they do fail to remember.
It’s weird how coy the sleeping mind is with the waking one when it’s so brazen in its broadcast.
Not to mention, dreams can be some pretty weird stuff.