I’m in my kitchen when I hear a knock. The tap-tap sounds familiar—I open the door.
In walks a man in a black sweater, it’s tight. I don’t know him, but he seems familiar.
Luckily, just yesterday, I loaded my German Luger and put it in my junk drawer. You know, the drawer that you always use for hardware, electronics chargers, and stamps.
I was taught by my Army buddie, Sgt. Franks, to shoot a CZ75 9mm (see thumbnail) in addition to my military-issue M16 semi-automatic rifle.
Something doesn’t seem right. He turns to the side and I realize he’s pointing an automatic weapon my direction. He says I must help him and that I am not who I think I am. My mother was part of a group of international spies and she’s coming after me. I must go with him immediately. I don’t believe him.
Moments ago, I had just finished boiling eggs. In a split second, in a total panic, I threw boiling water in his face, grabbed my Luger, and ran out the door. The new moon was in phase casting darkness down the parking lot and through the alley.
I hit the airfield, ran past two lawn chairs, tripping over one of the legs as I ran. By now my legs were burning, full of lactic acid. I could hear gun fire and felt blood running down my leg from my lack of grace navigating the terrain.
I saw the police station in the distance. I knew that the local police only had two men on duty at the time, one I had just passed at the local Starbucks. I could see a light in the window of the station. Past the station was desolation and an even deeper abyss of darkness.
My heart pounded. I could hear him. Footsteps. Breaking glass.
Just as I reached the station, the one policeman jumped on his motorcycle in pursuit of someone, or something, I didn’t know which, but his pursuit was away from me. My heart jumped and elongated unnaturally. I know this is my only chance to save myself. No one would believe me. No one would believe that my mother is after me and this man in the tight, black shirt is now going to capture me. He is going to kill me. I can feel it.
As the motorcycle speeds in front of me, I am somehow able to gain ground. I am running at an inhuman speed. My legs turn to panther legs. I leap to catch the attention of the police officer.
But it is too late.
I feel a hot spark in my back. I crumple onto myself. I feel warmth leaving my flesh. I feel my heart pounding to extinction.
My eyes open.
I am looking at our white ceiling and the glowing stars I had applied to our walls a few weeks ago.
I’m alive! It was only a dream!
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
OK, sorry I didn’t warn you up front, but I am a vivid dreamer and this is merely a description of one of the many. I have been a vivid dreamer since I can remember dreaming at age two. I’m always amazed how the strands of my life come alive and connect at night. I certainly dream in color. This is strange, but I have often died in my dreams.
In this instance, I have never been happier to wake up to the sound of the garbage truck outside my apartment window.
Here’s what I *think* my mind pieced together to create my dream:
- The German Luger that Jay referenced in one of his recent blog posts
- Army memories (the flight path)
- A childhood mishap of tripping over chairs on the stage in a crowded theater (oh the horror!)
- Trying to outrun something that I know I have a strong possibility of not outrunning (more about that later)
- One of my favorite movies, “Wanted,” which I was recently discussing with a friend (see movie clip below)
I’m constantly amazed at the power of our dreams and what we can both learn from and, if we lighten up about them, be entertained by them, too.
Create a great day! And, if you’d like, tell me about a crazy dream you had recently. Sometimes, they’re better than movies!