I had a strange dream last night: 

It feels nostalgic outside, the energy reminds me of my childhood. Bags packed, I walk across a side street to an abandoned gas station, curious of the fact that it is abandoned but everything in it and around it is brand new. The air is cooling from evening setting in and it smells like grass that has been cut a few days ago. In the shade that tints everything in a cool blue color and slowly envelops everything around me, I look back and reminisce about my time at the old wooden building I just left. The outside is splintered and weathered–more grey than any other color but the inside was so warm, so symmetrical and comforting. The lighting inside is soft but has no direct source.

The crunching of rubber on gravel snaps me out of my reverie and to my surprise, the cab from the intro of “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”–cabbie and all, is sitting in front of me, engine idling. I throw my bags in the back seat and smush my pillows on top of them. As I open the door, the cab driver asks if I’m ready to go and I pause. I remember that there had been nobody in that wooden building and I should go back to find someone. I pull my bags and pillows from the back seat and tell him that he has to go without me, that I will call him when I am ready. He smiles and drives away and I make my way back into the structure that seems so weary and sad on the outside but is so serene and warm on the inside.

Right after stepping foot inside, the door seals itself shut with a thin, almost translucent light around the frame and it disappears. A long hallway runs on forever but it somehow contains a number of rooms in it that I can see simultaneously. The walls are a deep, rich, cherrywood color, the floor is tan, unreflective and seems heated from below. Before I am through my second step, a long wooden table grows up from the ground before me–chairs included, and the seats are occupied by cancer patients. The aroma of the food on the table is tantalizing, even for my picky tastes, and I walk to the head of it.

Half of the guests are wearing hospital robes and the other half are wearing some ancient looking, but plain robes. I ask them who they are but they are silent. With their thoughts they tell me that they are on the verge of dying and I am overcome with sadness-nothing dramatic, but very deep and slow. They smile at me and proceed to enjoy their last meal together. I want to ask them where they are from, who they represent, and one thousand other questions but I know they will not give me an answer so I take hold of an unassuming chalice, buffed so well that it seemed to be emanating it’s own light source, raise it to my eye level and say something in a language I have never heard before. In unison, everybody else repeats it, causing the light in the room to glow brighter and everything goes completely dark with a low rumble.

I am outside again and this time in front of a more modern looking building waiting to have the door opened for me. I notice that I am carrying a small Bichon Frise in my arm and immediately regret leaving my boxer, Thane, at home. I am walked inside and given a tour of the facility, finally led into the room where I am to take part in a dog grooming competition. The area is setup like a computer lab of sorts–each person has their own cubicle that becomes invisible when they wish to speak with others. I set my dog on the table and notice it’s body is missing; there is nothing amiss about it, and the dog seems quite content. I proceed with the hair cut of the dog head and finish quickly. The results are announced as soon as I am finished and I did not win. I’m not upset because I am told I have something waiting for me downstairs. As I walk toward the door to descend, everything slowly evaporates in front of me and I “wake up” in a desert.

Everything is black & white and all around me are broken, wooden rails and blown out stone columns like an old set of ruins. A fair skinned, dark haired woman is standing at the far end where the exit is. She is motionless as I approach her, my cloak billowing in the strong wind gusts. She pulls out the hilt of a sword and it makes the familiar sound of a lightsaber as the blade extends from it. I hold my palm out to face her and mine flips up from my belt into my hand and lights up in a bright red. We engage each other in combat relentlessly for what seems to be an hour. She pulls a second saber from her belt and I dramatically bellow something at her; that phrase turns my blade into a long saber-whip. The fight that ensued seems choreographed; nonetheless, I am very impressed with how I handle it so naturally. After defeating her, she states that the only reason I won was because of my whip-like lightsaber so I close my eyes and focus momentarily, turning it back into a blade and point it at her neck, keeping her from moving. She slowly steps aside and tells me that I have succeeded and may now go. Woke up.