shrouded by floppy hat brims

I wonder sometimes if dreams really do echo all that is trapped within the connections between neurons, if they speak to some underlying Freudian subconscious that I have yet to realize within the everyday existence. Last night I read myself to sleep at some obscenely early hour and slept twelve hours (give or take) with certain themes reoccurring that I can slightly remember as they only became clear when my eyes fluttered open for the briefest of times. A mash-up of all the thoughts that I tend to push aside in hopes that I will either come to terms with them or stop wasting my time dwelling fantastically in the negative aspects of my current life. I don't know when I started meandering in the "dark side", gazing wistfully at a youth I claim I never lived fully or metaphorically. Which sounds odd, I know, but sometimes all I desire are the muted colors and hushed memories of growing up...no Holden Caulfield, no Pre-Teen Sensations, but somewhere closer to a movie watched solely for the cinematography. Fleeting and rich, soft and intimate, rather than say, angsty, pent-up sexuality and moaning bitchfests. Haha. I almost feel that I am forcing myself to relive the angst, longing for the people whose faces burn into me and whose bodies I wish to wrap my arms around and hold until everything stops spinning and finally makes sense. It's quiet and I'm the first one up. I miss a lot and I'm only 23. What the hell does that mean?