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Towards morning I remember bringing myself out of a dream twice by telling myself it was only a dream; not real: it didn't matter: it was a relief each time, though neither dream was particularly nightmarish. The first one was longer (some sort of prison/fortress??), most of which I don't remember, but ended with me having an aquarium with some strange fish, which almost died because the water suddenly ran very low; one (a pale, almost amphibian looking one with those whisker things) was already floating belly-up, but it revived again. The second dream ended in some sort of school/class reunion; I was late for something, but again the thought that it didn't really matter eased the anxiety.

I'm not sure whether I really woke myself up, or just moved to another dream-level.

Neither dream seemed particularly noteworthy when I woke up, but under the shower it occurred to me that that was exactly the attitude I'd been taking towards most of my own life until not so very long ago - it didn't matter; and it used to bring the same kind of relief. Eerie.

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