“You may say I'm a

dreamer, but I'm not the only one.”

- John Lennon

This certainly has been a good week, hasn't it? I'm not sure why we get so happy when it thaws in January but I think it has something to do with the fact that you don't have to shovel sunshine.

It was a nice treat to be able to just get in the car without scraping ice or pushing snow off the hood.

It's sort of like spring without all the hard work. You didn't have to rake any leaves or mow the lawn, just enjoy the warmth for a day or two.

But, as they say, all good things must end, and I'm sure that, soon enough, we will be white-knuckling it to work again and it will all just seem like a warm sunny dream. Which brings me to the point of today's column: dreams.

I don't know why I'm obsessed lately with what is going on in my head after I close my eyes at night but I must have brought it up a few times recently because, for my birthday, my girlfriend got me a book about interpreting your dreams.

Now, while I do appreciate the gift, after reading a few sections I'm left wondering if I should be laughing or perhaps making an appointment for some seriously expensive therapy.

For instance, I have this one dream pretty regularly that I can fly all over the city like a bird.

I soar up high over the buildings and dive bomb traffic, and it seems very real, not an altogether unpleasant experience. (Note: To the person with the blue car I spot tagged from 40 feet up; I'm truly sorry. Though in hindsight, from that distance, I must be a little proud for my aiming ability.)

So what does this say about me?

Well evidently, according to the book, I am either (a) working out my desires for total freedom and creativity. Or, (b) I subconsciously wish I was a pigeon with a vengeance.

Those are some truly broad yet enlightening interpretations. I would have kept reading but I am a bit scared to find out what it means to drift off to sleepy-time only to realize that I'm walking through the mall, naked, and for some reason I'm not in desperate need of clothes, as one would think, but rather I am searching for my car keys.

Now that one does make some sense in the fact that, without pockets, I must have dropped my keys somewhere.

But I certainly can't ask my old economics professor, who, for some reason, happens to be giving a class on inflation in front of the Victoria Secrets window, now can I? No. Some parts of my dreams I can figure out for myself and others are better left unknown.

Who knows, maybe dreams aren't suppose to make sense.

All I know for sure is that tonight I hope to be riding the air again, and to the person in the blue car, well, I wouldn't park on the street if I were you.

Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here,

each Sunday, In The Citizen.

He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com