A little boy is lying in bed, busting to go to the toilet.
So he gets out of bed, runs downstairs into the living room, and finds his mother chatting to a bunch of her friends.
“MUM,” the boy yells at the top of his voice, “I GOTTA PISS! I GOTTA PISS!”
Well, needless to say, the mother is mortified at her son’s language in front of her guests and scolds the young boy. “Billy, we do NOT shout that word in this house! Next time, just whisper, okay?”
The little boy nods sheepishly. His mum takes him to the bathroom and tucks him back into bed.
The next night, little Billy is busting to go to the toilet again.
So he gets out of bed, runs downstairs into the living room, and there is his mother, having a glass of wine with her friends.
“Mum! I gotta whisper, I gotta whisper!”
Mum excuses herself and takes Billy to the bathroom, smiling at her son’s innocent mistake, but relieved that he was at least more discreet than last time. She takes Billy back upstairs and tucks him into bed. “Well done, sweetie,” she says, kissing him goodnight, “that was much more polite.”
A few nights go by, and lo and behold, the little boy is busting to go to the toilet again.
So he gets out of bed, runs downstairs into the living room, and there is his dad watching TV.
“Dad!”, Billy says softly, “I gotta whisper, I gotta whisper!”
“Aw, is that so, little buddy?” says dad, his eyes fixed on the television.
…
..
.
“Come on over here and whisper in daddy’s ear.”
=========
A man goes to his therapist to have a dream interpreted.
“So, Mr. Carter,” Dr. Greaves said, scribbling a note. “You said the dream has been recurring?”
“Yes,” Carter replied, his voice just above a whisper. “Three nights now. Same dream. Same feeling… of being stuck.”
Dr. Greaves nodded slowly. “Go on. Start from the beginning.”
“I’m seated at a long table — long like a ballroom banquet,” he began. “Candles flicker in gold holders. Silverware gleams. A full seven-course meal lies ahead. I know that, somehow. I don’t see the menu, but I know. Soup, salad, fish, meat, palate cleanser, dessert, and… something after that. Something grand.”
Greaves raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“The soup is first,” Carter continued. “Creamy, perfect. I don’t know the flavor, but it warms me. I finish the bowl. I reach for the salad fork… but before I can touch it — the soup is back.”
“Refilled?”
“Exactly the same. Fresh, hot, full again. Like nothing happened.”
“And you eat it again?”
“I try not to… but it smells so good. It pulls me in. So I eat. Again. And again. Five, six, seven times. Every time I finish, it returns. The salad — untouched. Waiting. I never get there. Never get to move on.”
Silence hung for a moment. Dr. Greaves closed his notebook.
“Mr. Carter,” he said gently, “what you’re experiencing is not uncommon. Your subconscious is expressing something very simple through something very elaborate.”
Carter sat forward, hopeful. “What is it? What does it mean?”
Dr. Greaves exhaled slowly, almost dramatically, before delivering the line like a professor wrapping up a grand lecture: “It simply proves… that you cannot change courses in the middle of a dream.”