Last night in fitful sleep, I dreamed apocalyptic. Back in my childhood home but as an adult, with my siblings and parents, we waited for disaster, knowing, in the Dream Way of Knowing, that it was coming.
We were to be airlifted out of our home via helicopter, but before that, we needed to gather food. I found peaches and carrots and put them in a bag. All of us frantic, terrified. When there was no more food to toss in bags, I rifled through my books, looking for a thick anthology of children’s literature; where we were going, we would have time to pass.
And where was Kegen? Dream Meg needed him and felt confused that he wasn’t there. Shortly, he appeared, and I ran to him and kissed him, a luxury interrupted by chaos and necessary explanations about what was happening. The end.
“But dreams aren’t real!” my best friend protests; she doesn’t care to discuss them. “What is real?” I counter only when I’m feeling existential.
What is real? This morning, Continue reading