I doubt there can be more than a very few people in the world who have not experienced nightmares, or pressure dreams that have left them nervous, sweating, unsettled when awaking. Nor do I suppose most of us have not ascribed it to some serious worries in our lives to do with work, family or experiences.
But the ‘ability’ to be scared – and I know it is not usually described as an ability – has given rise to the practice of scaring ourselves. The facility in the brain to relive or anticipate nightmarish experiences for whatever reasons it does so, has been made into a relish. Why we visit nightmares deliberately I would not know but we seem fascinated by horror stories of all kinds, from sitting wrapped in attention as dancers in macabre costumes bring stories to life round village fires, to endless films made to scare and debilitate and give us real nightmares when we are alone with the shadows.
But there is the real stuff of nightmare. To be alone in whatever the situation. Facing unbeatable odds, horrific creatures or even less ugly things like being in love but not loved and the worst of all things watching someone you love die. To be alone and face the whole scenario without help, without hope.
For some of us these things are not nightmares, but reality. Sorrow is after all, the greatest of all nightmares.