I rarely ever wake in the morning with any awareness of having dreamt during the night. I know I do dream, or at least I believe the researchers who tell us that we all do. If I had to swear to it though, based on personal experience, I would say that I don't 99% of the time.
Lately I've been dreaming up a storm. Huge technicolour widescreen dreams, big sexy or scary ones. Ones that wake me up, full of things that writhe and pulse with dark shadows and grainy light. Maybe it's on account of the book I'm reading at the moment which is all dark, gritty and gothic, or my diet, or the cold and wet nights... any number of things. I think it's only the odd ones that are bothering to make themselves known, the quiet sweet little ones are content to disappear. The meek.
While it lasts it has been quiet interesting. I don't buy into the concept of dreams as portents or significant psychological markers. Maybe they are, maybe they aren't. Me, I subscribe to the theory that they are purely mental gymnastics; a clearing out of pathways, of the brain stretching, relaxing and having some fun, a clearing out junk - sort of a debrief and defrag all in one.
However, the one last night, the one with the worms, that one I could do without.