I like nightmares. I enjoy scary dreams. Not retrospectively — at the time, even if I am not lucid dreaming.
Maybe because I felt so much dread and the imminence and actuality of violence as a kid that somewhere deep my mind craves still all of those things for their familiarity and for the anarchy of the abandonment of all rules of decorum and convention. It’s a kind of freedom, though a terrible kind — the sort where you can do what you want, but so can the werewolf attempting to devour you.
I don’t want to live in a dystopia, but in many ways I grew up in one so when I wind up there again in my dreams it feels like going home.