Tag Archives: Dreams

Horror dream nightmare

I just woke up from an awful horror dream nightmare. It was very gross, and scary, and violent and sexual.

Look, I really do not understand why anyone makes — let alone watches — horror films. The snippets I get from Halloween decorations or 30-second film clips before I look away are enough to haunt my nightmares for weeks. Does it not affect other people this way? There is so  much darkness inside twisted up humans. That is why I want light so badly. Light, and air, and trust, and kindness, and people taking care of each other, and babies.

I know I’m abnormally sensitive, because the Disney film Aladdin was suffocatingly terrible to me as a small child. The aura of arbitrary magic (that could break the laws of nature with buildings rolling on the ground!) and the  Jafar-Jasmine thing (I was too little to know what sex was, but I hated the vibe of predator and prey, using wits and honeyed words–it was sickening as much as the lingering smell of pot smoke and old urine in undergrad dormitory stairwells is).

Maybe there is something in my soul that resonates with recognition towards the darkness. I feel like I can feel the creeping chill of it, long before anyone else in the room mentions the draft and closes the door. But this I keep wondering — can they really not feel it, or are they all pretending?

When this sort of thing descends like a cloud, I hold on to Jesus’ promise to me with both hands. This is why I listen to cheesy evangelical music on loop, lay my head on a Bible, and go to the “fuddy duddy” churches. I want air and light and life. And Jesus is my only hope.

 

Apocalypse nightmare and Skillet

I had a pretty nasty string of dreams last night. Society had collapsed, and I was part of a group that had to fight our way through a tunnel. We were shooting up another gang in subway tunnels that was coming for us. I was very scared, but I was a pretty good shot (and my compatriots were not), which meant at the end I was alone with a bunch of dead people shot through the heart, trying to remember why we had to kill each other in the first place.

It was an awful, awful, dream. There was so much fear and blood. Augh. Here’s a song I’m listening to on loop right now:

My dream last night

So this was my dream last night:

I was at some big fancy professional conference-y panel, with a thousand or so people, it was mostly american but there were some international people there. I started talking to one woman, middle-aged, careworn,  and Korean. She was from North Korea. She had her daughter with her–who seemed to be a ditzy 11 year old brat. Then I learned that her daughter was 27, but had been stunted by malnutrition and environment. Her eyes looked a little weird, but she acted this way because inside she was very sad. I tried to get her some fruits&protein food from the reception table, but I rememeber thinking–it is too late–she is too old now to ever grow, it is too late. The lady was a bit jumpy, someone who was genteel but frightened of the whole world, as if it was one large horror novel.

And then, it was. We were in a giant gilded mansion built by some American robber baron from the nineteenth century. It was repurposed now, full of American ivy league undergrads who seemed by turns giggling and nervous. They were all talking about the artistic serial murders that were happening around the mansion we were all staying at. They were sadistic and staged. It fascinated them, they were all looking at the pictures (the murderer took posed black and white photos of his victims and left them around the house ), though of course we didn’t know who would be next. When they kept discussing the murders and looking at the pictures, I couldn’t tell if it was genuine fear for them, entertainment, admiration, sadism, morbid curiousity, or all of it. I think it was mostly fear though. They were dressed very stylishly.

We were all standing around in a circle in one of the large rooms of the mansion. I thought I recognized the murderer from the photos. He was a white male, but there was this Indian “woman” with a square jaw who was smiling at me in a sick way. I thought the dark skin looked paint, and the hair like a wig. But I didn’t say anything, because he was there, and also,  I thought if I was wrong, they would all be upset at me for being cruel to a woman for having an irregular body type.I was sick with fear, especially for the North Korean woman and her child, who already expected the worst to happen anyway.

Then Mal was there (the guy from firefly) dressed in his western gear. This was the action part of the dream. I remember running alot, running into forbidden darkened rooms, grabbing guns and things (including a magic flower). Mal got the undergrads to band together, and they fought the serial murderers.

We left the mansion in some mayhem, but it was cleansed of the sadistic laughter and the lurking darkness among the gilding. I think the undergrads were trying to organize a new government or some semblance of order. We (I was now a young boy, following Mal) were leaving now, headed for a prairie farm in middle of the desert. His wife came out of the farm to greet us. She was not pretty, but there was something about her that was very womanly— she carried herself ram-rod straight, long apron and hair tied in a bun atop her head, hands calloused and tanned, her arms strong and her voice steady. She had a gun, but she was not bloodthirsty, and just by looking at her you could tell that she had long experience with harsh wildernesses and stubborn animals. With her coming across the desert was a crowd of strapping young prairie boys from about 9 years old to 16–they were old enough to try to be men, but weren’t men yet either. They were her and Mal’s sons.

I thought all was well now, the chickens and the animals lowing to be milked, the chores and the windmill. There were occasional moments when Mal started acting strange. His face would get clouded and confused by turns. We tried to ignore it though, and hoped everything would be alright. Later I was running around the farm with Mal’s sons, and then we came up on the edge of the desert and froze. Mal had dug this oddly-shaped ritual-like pit about 10 feet wide in a perfect circle, and at the center of it was his wife who he had tied to a stake. It was all very bizarre. I looked at his face, and he looked at us without recognizing us–there was some kind of struggle going on in his face, and it would keep changing expression–one minute looking recognizable but confused, the next minute this hungry animal look was overtaking his face. I realized he had been infected by whatever had infected the serial murderers–he had come into contact with them in the fight at the mansion, and now it was getting him too.

Then his wife spoke. She was clearly exhausted from a previous struggle, but her spirit was unbroken. She told her sons to go home to the farmhouse and wait there, that mommy and daddy would meet them there. I realized she didn’t want them to see this and become zombified. She was also completely unafraid. I could tell she was very sad, but she hadn’t given up. From the sound of her voice, I could tell she hadn’t surrendered.

We turned and walked toward the farmhouse. I knew the boys were in cognitive dissonance, if we tried to tie down Mal and rescue their mother it would just end badly–they were shaken and Mal was armed and much stronger than us. We headed back to the farmhouse. I was planning to get the guns ready, so that when Mal came for us, I’d at least try to shoot him from a distance, through a window. He was a much better shot than me, but this way I had a chance. I didn’t think his sons would be able to handle fighting him, and I didn’t want him to get them too.

We waited at the farmhouse, and then, outlined against the desert sky (it was either a sunset or a sunrise–I couldn’t tell), I had my gun loaded, and was looking out through the upstairs gable window. Then I saw two figures walking. It was Mal and his wife, unharmed. They were walking hand-in-hand. I looked at his face, and it was human again. The zombie-virus had been overcome. The kids ran up to them, and the animals were lowing. I put down the gun and ran downstairs, to feed the chickens.

My dream last night

I had a crazy vivid dream last night, one of those rare dreams that make you feel more awake in them than out of them.

I was travelling to my childhood home. The house was nearly empty. My parents were there, and a couple of my siblings. About a half-dozen of them were missing. They just weren’t there.

At first I was frightened, and then it was made clear to me, in the way it is in dreams. This was a world very like what I knew, but everything here had happened differently. In this world, my siblings had been born into different families, in different circumstances. One of them had been kidnapped and kept in someone’s basement. Another one was enslaved in North Africa, another one was trafficked in Asia. They were on all continents, in different crises. I needed to find them.

It was a long dream, there was action, but many more prayers. I remember at moments, when there was nothing I could do, I prayed hard. There was a feeling of long waiting in my dream—I am not sure if years passed by. One by one, they were rescued.

And the tears springing into my eyes, I almost couldn’t believe it, when the sister who had gone missing years ago (in the knowing that comes in dreams, I knew she had been trapped in someone’s basement in American suburbia but there was no way of finding where) was at the other end of the phone line. I had given her up for dead. But she had escaped, and with the help of a kindly neighbor, was physically safe and healing from injuries. Now she was calling us on our old landline whose number she had remembered all those years. Her voice was sad, but steady with hope. She was coming home on the train, today.

One by one, they were rescued. But there was one left missing – my kid sister, the spunky one with the round face and dark eyes. We couldn’t find her. Finally I found out what happened.

There was a building that looked like a factory or a hospital – very industrial, clean lines, ikea style. A family ran it – they had a big modern mansion next to the building and even bigger than it. The mansion was full of original impressionist paintings. There were many dinner parties there. The man and the woman had a daughter around my age. There were many guests, and I recognized people I knew there: we were all impressed with the lady of the mansion. She was a musician and an artist, outspoken but articulate, educated and very classy. The mansion (and the outside of the other building) were airy and light—with hues of white and pale blue and silver.

The inside of the other building (the ikea looking one) was also silvery white on the outside, but the inside was painted an orange-red. Inside, children were born there and then laid out on tables and the doors were locked. They died there.

The children ranged from preemies to two years old or so – somehow some of them survived that long before dying of dehydration. They were given no food or water, and nobody changed their diapers. The lady showed us around the place, classy as ever. I picked up one of the babies from the table and tried to carry it away, but the guards stopped me and they were all mad at me. They insisted that there were no children on the tables—though they wouldn’t let me take them home. Somehow, the act of picking up one was incredibly offensive.

I tried sneaking off with one, and was caught again. They were upset at me – I had broken some code of conduct and been decidedly unclassy and repugnant (it made sense in the dream). But they tried to be nice to me all the same. I was their houseguest. There were many houseguests – nice, good people I had known from before. Nobody else had seen the children on the tables, though we had all taken the tour of the other building together. There were concerts and dinners and intellectual discussions. Everyone was a little embarrassed for me, I was clearly being obnoxious to the gracious hospitality of the people at the mansion.

Finally I smuggled a baby out that was my kid sister (her name was different though, and she did not recognize me, being born into a different place in this world) —but only from the other building to the mansion. I was still trapped in the compound, and people were watching me all the time. They even watched my food at the table – I couldn’t smuggle any milk to her.

I hid her in different rooms in the mansion, as guests moved from one to the other and maids came – it was like playing a game of chess. I had just come back from an intellectual discussion and a thought-provoking play about social norms that had been performed for the houseguests. I was standing in a gilded room decorated in an updated baroque style, and I caught a glimpse of her face through a crack in the door of the supposedly empty spare room, and my heart ached with a sudden and fierce sense of worth. Her dark, sad, trusting little face was so beautiful it gave me both an overwhelming feeling of courage—I’d do anything to get her out of here – and also fear — that I would lose her, that they would find her outside of the other building and end her existence. She looked about two years old now but could talk, though she was quiet and stoic, and used to suffering. I smuggled her a biscuit, some milk, and a note (apparently 2 year olds can read in this world) that promised her I was going to do our escape in the next couple of days. She folded up the note quietly, and said through the crack in the door, “I can wait and hide, I will be here.” She said it with so much trust it nearly broke my heart.

And then the lady of the mansion burst into my room. She was out of sorts, not herself, in something of a suspicious fit. She had heard me talking to the door. She was fed up with me, and starting searching the room. Her daughter rushed in behind her, apologizing for her paranoid mother being discourteous to me, their houseguest. I had agreed with them about everything during the discussions, but the lady was shouting that I was a sneaky liar.

It was weird—but I was filled with a sense of shame, shame at my shabby self. I knew I was breaking all codes of conduct, and that this was their house, but I also knew that I had to do this. I pretended to look surprised and clueless.

But despite the daughter’s reasoning and apologies, her mother would not be dissuaded: she burst open the door where the extra food and my kid sister were – and my heart sank.

They would see the half-eaten biscuit and the little girl huddled in wide-eyed fear; and even the daughter would be filled with disgust. I was powerless now, they would catch her, and she would die. I had failed her.

The doors burst in – and it was empty. Sunlight flooded the room. My mind reeled in shock I was barely able to hide. The daughter apologized profusely to me, promised me full reign of the house and no more suspicious searchings, and dragged her mother out of the room.

And then I heard my kid sister’s voice calling from some hidey hole in a chipper sing-song voice: “I’m hiding, and I’m ok now, just come and get me soon.”

“I will” I whispered. “I’ll come for you in three days, and then we’ll be free.” I stared at the sunlight. It had been given me. It was as if I had just been given the universe, and it was something more wondrous and wide than…than anything I could ever hold in my mind, even for a moment.

I literally woke up at this moment. It is 6:30 a.m., and the St Louis sky was white and shining. I take a deep breath, and feel like crying and laughing, both. Most of all, I feel like sitting in silence, in a kind of gladness close to tears. My heart feels full with joy and fear and hope all at once, a weightiness like when you hold a fragile newborn on your chest.

Tolkien’s Eucatastrophe, I guess. I know this was just a dream, but it is the sort of thing that makes the whole universe feel big.

Some of those vivid dreams

Usually I have anxiety dreams about missed deadlines or angry superiors or failed quests–which are as dull as they are stressful–or nonsensical or trippy dreams (floating through green jello, etc) that aren’t even worth remembering. And then the occasional nightmare, where people I love and trust morph into new personalities. But one thing about them all is that it is a smaller world than the real world, something that is less alive, less vivid, than the waking world.

But then there are the very rare, but vivid dreams, that come out of nowhere, that feel “more real” than the waking world, and almost seem like they mean something. A couple nights ago I had a nightmare, that there was another world, which people from our world could get into. It was a physically beautiful place — snow-capped mountain ranges, bright sunlight, skiiing and a big state-of-the-art library for studying. I think there were gardens and modern fountains too. People could go there just by standing under one of the “gates” between our world and that place–I think there were 7 or 4 of them–which was just a location, you would stand there, and turn your palms towards the sky, and lift your ribcage upwards as you tilted your head back–as if opening yourself up towards something–and then there would be a dizzying woosh, and poof, you’d be in the other place.

Alot of people went to the other place–and one of my old friends (just in the dream) with a wife and kids went to the other place. But he didn’t come back, and they had been waiting for 4 years. He wasn’t the first, there were many people in the other place. I decided to go there, give them a good kick in the pants, and get them back to this world. Their kids were growing up without them.

So I opened myself up at the gates, and wooshed into the other world. It was a beautiful place…and yet, something about it felt very small, constricted, stuffy. I had this feeling that from the outside, this was just a dusty speck. I had fallen into something, something that was closing in. I was in no pain, but it was as if I wasn’t breathing. As if the wind was dead there (though air moved), and as if water wasn’t truly wet. I walked into the library (nicely lit, a pleasant place) and saw some intellectuals studying, I recognized someone I knew, a family man. He did not notice me. People here didn’t really speak to eachother, not that they couldn’t, but….

They’d all just come for a couple weeks, at the longest. But they’d stayed a bit longer, just a bit longer. They’d forgotten how long. There was no rush, no reason to go back at the moment, not just now, maybe in a bit….

I was trying to round up people, but wasn’t making any progress.

Everything looked so pretty and clean and neat. But something about it all was horrible. Not in a dramatic way. There was this sense of growing closed-off-ness, no wind, of something imperceptibly shrinking and shrinking. I realized it was myself. My sense of urgency, of getting back to earth, was shrinking down. Why leave this place? Not that I was crazy about it, but it all didn’t seem to matter one way or another….

The gates are closing. Something in me said that. I climbed up the white mountain range, and saw the flicker of the sky–this gate was still open. I must get the people, I must get out…. but even that seemed distant and odd now. I realized, very matter-of-factly, that the longer I stayed, the more I wouldn’t ever bother leaving. I was forgetting already. Something in me shuddered, but it felt so distant…

==============ok, end of dream=====================

It was one of the most terrifying dreams I had, but it doesn’t sound like it now, huh? Weird.

And then I had another dream tonight. There was this man and this woman, they had four kids. They were from a very low socioeconomic background, had very little education, and a somewhat chaotic amoral/social formation. They were not brave or proud people, they just tried to make do. Either the government or the gang was coming after the man, so the woman was telling him to run and start over in another city. They were done. He was very rough (tattoos, broken teeth, foul language), but something in him was vulnerable and confused. He was telling her that he didn’t want it to be over for them, he wanted her and the kids to go with him, they would go to the mountains. She said how would they live, and he said he’d find a way somehow  (though he hadn’t been much of a financial provider to this point).

They were both very ugly, and yet there was something there, dearly precious, that made my chest ache. I don’t know if beautiful is the right word. I wanted so badly for it to work for them, it would be worth the whole price of the universe if it could. And then they disappeared, and I was standing in a huge bazaar full of people. I couldn’t find them, and I didn’t know what had happened–if he had just gone back to being the mess he had been before, or if the gang had got him, or if she’d started living with the other men, or if they’d tried to make it to the mountains after all. This weird mix of fear and pain, and sweetness too, was all mixed up in my heart, making it feel both heavy and full.

A German Song and a Dream

I had a dream last night. It was the typical bad dream, complete with housebreakers, a party we had to dress up to go to, being late, disappearing clothes, a weird bigotted pantomime that made my mom angry, a cashier that stole all my money and wouldn’t let me buy a really good deal (100+ hours of WWII documentary for $13), hooligans, and waiting in endless lines while getting desperately late though I couldn’t remember what the the line was for or what I was late for, evil bureaucrats, friends going to jail framed, etc. And a haunted house, and more disappearing clothes. But there were two parts of the dream that made it good.

 

At one part in the dream, an old couple was going to a WWII reunion. They were wearing denim overalls and sharing a large brown trenchcoat that looked like it was made for giant in the circus. And then the old lady (all of 5 feet, wrinkled and white-haired), turns to me and said “I love you”. She came over and hugged me. In the logic that comes only in dream, I realized they were sharing the giant coat because her husband was making sure she didn’t wander off and get lost because she had severe Alzheimers and would probably die soon. And yet, even though I knew she was senile, her love for me, seemed so real. I remember thinking in the dream “this is real, even if everything else if false, this is real”. The feeling of her love, the overpowering warmth, and her dignity overwhelmed me; everything else melted away.

 

 

Another part of the dream, during a chaotic party/fight that turned into a series of arrests; in the midst of the chaos there was a toddler, brown haired little kid with pigtails, she looked about 15 months or so. She was toddling around and making happy noises, despite the fact that her father was framed and arrested, and people in the room were struggling  marital infidelity, financial collapse, addictions, and suicidal despair.  She looked up at her parents, and smiled. I saw her smile, and the joy of it was like fire kindling. She knew better than the rest of us, there was something divine in her countenance, she was our hope. I looked at her smiling, unable to talk (people were shouting all round us), and knew that everything would be OK for all of us, because this toddler knew the Joy of God, and that is more powerful than all problems of the grownups.

========================================================================

 

My highschool siblings had to memorize a song in German for their class. I suggested Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress is Our God”, but they memorized this instead:

 

 

Ich steh an deiner Krippe hier,

O Jesu lein mein Leben;

Ich komme, bring und schenke dir,

Was du mir hast gegeben.

Nimm hin, es ist mein Geist und Sinn,

Herz, Seel und Mut, nimm alles hin

Und laß dir’s wohlgefallen.

 

I think the translation goes something like this:

 

I stand here before your crib/manger

O Jesus-ie my Life;

I come, and bring gifts to you

What you to me have given.

Take/Accept, it is my Spirit and Mind,

Heart, Soul and Courage, take/accept everything

And leave yourself, it is most beloved.

 

There is something about loving the Christ-child. It makes a person want to pour out everything to him and leave nothing back. It is the same as loving the Man of Sorrows, all covered in blood and exhausted, right before he is crucified. It’s his weakness, really. The weak and vulnerable God, made like us for us, inspires a mad kind of devotion that doesn’t want to hold back.

 

A few years ago I read a comment in some cyber-debate that said Christianity is a stupid religion that would annoy a real god if he existed, because ‘it is about making god look pathetic’ because the 2 biggest celebrations of the Christian year are God in diapers in a barn, and God beaten up and bleeding tied to a stake of wood.

 

Of course the anonymous commenter forgot about Easter, but he was onto something. It is the reason He did it; and it is the reason Mohammed felt he had to make the Koran to fix.

 

What Child is this who laid to reston Mary’s lap is sleeping?

Good Christian fear, for sinners here

the silent word is pleading….

Nails, Spears, shall pierce him through,

the cross be borne for me, for you

Hail, Hail the word made flesh,

The Babe, the son of Mary

My Dream Tonight and Last Night

I had two vivid dreams the last two nights. They were so vivid, and both involved my heart quite deeply, that I woke up emotional. I can’t figure them out, as usually my dreams are related to happenings in my day, and are oppresively mundane as well as bizarre. These actually had some internal sense. Here goes:

The night before last I dreamt I was a young man. I was at a “dance”. It was a type of elaborate square dance where people kept switching partners. We were in a large, strange building, that resembled a warehouse, it was all painted a sterile white, and somehow left me with a very strong feeling of unease. There was one restroom–it was painted bright red, was state-of-the-art, and coed. I felt very uneasy, though I couldn’t explain why. Then I went back to the dancing. Something about the dance bothered me, though it was very unsensual, the rapid swapping of people felt too significant. Then I realized (in the sense that only works in dreams) that our dance was an elaborate spellmaking–we were weaving dark magic with scientific precision. There was no mystery in it, but I felt that it was evil, and I fled the warehouse. I was walking down a muddy road. The sky was as bleak white as the ceiling of the warehouse, and there was one dull dirty street after another, with people walking quickly and not looking into eachother’s faces. Then I saw a trampled icon of an angels. It had been a large, lifesize icon, and someone had broken it into pieces. I saw a piece of the wing, the face, and another face and torso. It was painted in the Medieval Russian style…like Andrei Rublev). There was mud across the face. I stepped over it as everyone else had done and continued walking. The dullness of the streets continued. I realized that I had to go back to the warehouse-dance-place, there were no other options. I turned to go back, and there before me was a girl child. She was a beautiful child, four of five years old, chubby, goldenhaired, with a healthy complexion and the most beautiful dark little eyes looking so large in her chubby face. She had picked up the three pieces of the broken icon, and had been waiting for me. I looked at her, and she was the first fair thing I had seen in this dreary, dull, magic-scientific mindless world. There was a wonderous beauty about her, and a brightness, I stared at her and realized she was dearer to me than everything else in this world. My love for her squeezed my heart, I wanted to kneel before her and never leave. I remember thinking “she is worth more than all the worlds.” But she handed me the broken pieces of the icon, and gave me a mission somehow. I turned to look at her, and walked back to the warehouse. I realized she was sending me on a mission of some sort. I had a purpose now, and I knew it, I had to take the broken, trampled icons back to the warehouse and show them to the people. I felt somehow I was in danger now, something was different, something was in the balance, but now, the feeling of danger was nothing compared to the joy and the longing. I wanted to run back to the child, but she was gone. I walked towards the warehouse, and the road was still dull, but I thought of the child, and recalled that the sky around her was not white, but vivid blue. The name “Rebekah” kept running through my head, realized that child must have been the matriarch Rebekah, the mother of Israel.
THE END

Ok….I realize that a blond chubby child is in no way Semitic, and that the figure in my dream could not be the Jewish Rebekah, my namesake. The funny thing is, when I woke up to reality, I still had this love in my heart, so vivid that I physically felt this warmth/weight on my upper ribcage, on my chest. (I had that sensation after reading The Brothers Karamazov, and had tried to describe it by saying I felt like there was an infant sleeping in my heart). However, that “rebekah” child in my dream, despite her youngness, had an authority and a wisdom about her that made me obey her without question.

+++
THE Second Dream (which I had tonight)

I was a young woman, late twenties, single. I had one family member, a older female relative–I think an aunt–who visited occasionally; my aunt was a Korean careerwoman who did not aprove of my low marks. I was living in an urban jungle, some apartment. It was an awkward situation with this Korean aunt (btw, who does not exist in real life). I wasn’t doing well in school/my job, there was some stress. I worked on the upper floor of an old library, and lived in a small apartment with concrete steps. I had a handful of acquaintances including a guyfriend who commiserated with me about our stressful job in the library, but I really had no real friends. I was alone. On certain days, I would go out on the back door of the skyscraper apartment, and wait on the concrete steps. It was my rendesvous with a small girl child. She was six or seven, with long golden hair. She had such delicate features, and was thin and small. I would wait for her, she would come, and I would carry her on my back around the concrete stairs. We would talk. Then I would let her down, and we would, hand in hand, go up to the top of the sky scraper and get out on the roof, looking at the skyline. There was alot of pollution and smoke, but we would look at it nonetheless. I would play child’s games with her–duck duck goose and tag, though they were a little different as there were only the two of us. Then she would sit in my lap, and we would talk about inconsequential things. I would often complain about my stressful life, my lack of purpose, my lousy job, my awkward/strained relationships. She would listen gravely, and hug me with her little arms, and I would feel peace. She was like a little mother to me. Though she was so little, there was a careworn, almost maternal aspect in her small face. Then she would leave, walking back down the concrete stairs to her family’s apartment somewhere else in the concrete jungle. They were a very low income family–we all were (except for my aunt)–and I knew her father was dead and her mother was remarried and a harsh woman. I never heard little girl-child complain about them though.

I was waiting for her one day by the steps, especially longing to see her because my aunt had just visited and let me know she thought me a failure, etc. But my little friend did not show up. I waited again the next day, and became very anxious, sitting in the dreary apartment hallway, waiting for that small child to come climbing up the large steps. But she did not come. I finally stood up, to go on the roof alone. Then suddenly she was there, but she was all silver-white, with no color in her. She looked like a ghost. I scooped her up in my arms, and she was warm as ever, not cold. I hugged her to myself. She told me that she came to say goodbye, because she had died. She came to say goodbye, and tell me she loved me, and could no longer come to our rendesvous, because she was leaving this world. I asked her what had happened, she told me her grown up step-brother & mother had beaten her to death, but she told it to me with so much matter-of-factness, no bitterness, a small childlike acceptance, with sadness. I felt no anger from her, but pity for her abusive relatives. I begged her to stay, but she had no choice but to leave, and gave me one last hug. Then she was gone. I started sobbing, and talking aloud to a bored neighbor how my little friend was worth more than everything else in this world & all the people in it. And why is it that worthless people like her abusive relatives could not even see the worth in her and discarded her as worthless when she was the only thing in this world that was so valuable. I was sobbing, and saying I lost my only treasure. Even as I sobbed, I felt her preciousness so intensely, that my heart was full of a love that was like that weight/warmth on my chest.
THE END.

OK….that dream is very strange, isn’t it? In both dreams, I am not myself, but a twenty-something-year-old protagonist without a purpose in life. In both dreams, I woke up to reality with this love in my heart that was so intense. And both dreams came OUT OF THE BLUE as I was not thinking about anything vaguely related to either dream when I went to sleep. What make you of this? I cannot figure it out.
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