I had a strange dream last night:
1915.  Early summer in Europe must look more beautiful than this.  Far off in the distance, bright yellow sunlight blankets the hills, however, here by my brother and I, it is dark overhead and the thick, potent smell of a bog permeates the fog that covers the ground–everything is tinted in a muddy green color.  We shoulder ourselves against large, colorless boulders for shelter and wait; you can almost hear the air crackle with tension.  I look down at the ground, brushing aside some dead grass and a glow catches my eye.  A quick whistle from my teeth brings my brother over and everything turns black and white.  Pictures form in the glowing object; tanks rolling through the country on the outskirts of a city, massive buildings still in flames, their white pillars turned black from soot & smoke, and a sequence that moves too fast for me to comprehend aside from noting a crescent moon and swastika in the confusion. 

My brother and I stare at each other; he holds up his index finger and I hold up my index & middle finger, both gestures symbolizing world war I and II.  The first war has ended and we have just entered the second.  Within the glow, a swastika forms again, absorbing it until no light is left.  The symbol then forms into the number  “70” and then into the head of an eagle, resting atop a shield.  It vanishes and an eagle flies overhead; we follow it s flight path to a glass box of a house a few miles ahead.  It looks about a quarter mile away from a river bank and I ask my brother how we can utilize the energy of the trees hanging over it.

Slowly, we approach the river bank, everything is in color again.  To the left is the glass house, no walls, with a man sitting in a throne-like chair in the center, motionless.  As we continue forward along the water, the ground begins to shift, slowly pulling a 180 degree turn; the house is further ahead of us now.  We walk toward where the glow had been coming from earlier, a handful of soldiers walking with my brother and I, carrying towers of ceramic dinner plates.  Without warning, a few of them break at the base, sending all of the other ones crashing to the ground in slow motion.  I quickly signal at the troops with me and we all dive further into the water, which is waist deep and has tall, dry grass growing up from the mud.

The man in the glass house stands up, walks through the glass and floats over to our location.  He opens his mouth to speak and wheat bushels grow out from his tongue and his eyes tint bright green.  He says that he cannot grow anything on his farm because of the war, that he is forbidden from feeding us.  I slowly rise from the water, making eye contact with him, planning on an attempt at negotiation.  The droplets fall from my hat in a slow drip.  His eyes narrow in on me, causing my eyes to fill with blue fire.  I grab the wheat from his mouth, telling him that he can do as he wishes, as it is his farm, and we are hungry.  Agitated, he steals the wheat back from me, balancing it on his palm and it turns to ash.  He tells me that my soldiers, brother and I have little understanding of what is happening and what the war is about.  I disagree with him, stating the specifics of what fueled the war and the desperation of Europe, causing him to close his eyes and point to the middle of the river.  My soldiers are out there, dead, in a heap.  My brother puts his hand on my shoulder and matter-of-factly states, “We will not die”.  Everything cuts to black.  I wake up.

I had a strange dream last night:

The humidity is rude. Rotting wood and stagnant water permeate the air around me. I notice it only slightly, so focused on this photo album I am flipping through. On each page is a portrait of something or someone with a caption stating “SAVED”, “NOT SAVED”, “YET TO BE” at the bottom of the portrait. I turn the page slowly and a warm gust blows in my face…..I stare at the picture and everything around me becomes quiet. The portrait of a young elephant is staring back at me, it’s face decorated in tribal paint. I nostalgically run my hand over it, able to feel the rough texture of it’s skin. The album floats away from my hands and hovers over the swamp. The elephant climbs out of the picture, using it’s limbs like a human would, and trots over to me, rolling onto its back. I hop down next to it and rub the elephant’s belly and it makes…….elephant noises (whatever those are called) and flails it’s trunk through the air, tickled by my rubbing of it’s stomach. It quickly rolls onto it’s legs and licks my face, which I find utterly disgusting, and it hastily stomps off into the haze ahead.

The lights flip on and I am in the bathroom of the house of 13 Lawrence Lane (where I grew up). My brother is in the kitchen, cooking breakfast but is is one o clock in the morning; I am getting ready for school, irrespective of the time. A crash erupts by the wall next to the bathroom door and the elephant charges in, laughing at the mess it made. I slam the bathroom door shut, intent on getting ready for school instead of playing with the animal but the door is crooked and there is a space of 4 inches between the bottom of the door and the frame, which the elephant slips his trunk through to rip the door from it’s hinges. We go back and forth, opening and closing the door for a good half hour and all the while, the bathroom faucet turns on and off in sync with the movement of the door. Eventually I become irritated and kick the door from it’s hinges and it lands in the kitchen. Before my very eyes, the elephant grows into an adult, rears it’s head and whistles, transporting me outside into a heavily wooded area with a large, green, sun soaked hill off in the distance.

Another animal sound grabs my attention, a guttural and chewing kind of noise. Behind me stands a baby rhinoceros, slowly moving it’s head up and down. I smile at it and run away. It makes a squeak noise and runs after me. We play a game of cat and mouse for a long time and I trick it by running around a large tree, keeping it between us. The rhinoceros becomes mildly irritated at the tactic, stops, rubs it’s little horn against the base of the tree, causing the roots to lift the tree up, allowing it to pass under. It charges at me and knocks me over, trampling over me. As it runs me over, I yell out to my brother that I am going to die. That just isn’t true, because I stand up unharmed when I am free from the peer pressure of it’s legs. The lighting in the sky changes abruptly and a loud sizzling sound precedes the sun as it slams into the ground. Everything stops moving, holding still as if a “pause” button was pressed. I wake up.

I had a strange dream last night:

I am casually walking around an extremely ornate and beautiful room. Wood floors, gold leaf paint covering the lighting fixtures, and lion claw feet on the furniture. A grand chandelier hangs above, illuminating the room and filling it with an aura that exudes warmth and wealth. A handful of my friends are there and we are planning our trip back to the Dominican Republic, all of us very excited. Time flashes forward to the night of departure and I realize that I had been misinformed concerning the expenses for my trip. A check-in agent comes over to me with her laptop and says that I need $776 dollars if I wish to go tonight. I scoff and tell her that I have no more than $200 in my account and ask what my options are. She informs me that I may cancel my trip and I do so, quite upset about it. 

Brandon, Rob, and Justine board the plane by disappearing from the room. Around the room are people I have never met but cannot see clearly either. Their forms are not unlike a crowd of grey silhouettes, no personalities, murmuring amongst themselves more than speaking. Right then, at the foot of the bed in a fancy chair, an elderly woman fades into view. I am more curious than fearful and I approach her. Suddenly a brief, but loud rumbling fills the room and the lady’s eyes turn jet black. Her arms turn the same color and take on the qualities of elastic doused in liquid. Her arms drive into the ground, expanding and stretching as they rip through the wood; black tears streaming down her cheeks.

I am a pretty mellow lad and there isn’t too much that phases me, but as this happened I became a bit unsettled. She snaps her head in my direction and sneers at me. I look away. Her voice changes and has lost it’s feminine charm that it likely had before she turned “super demon” on me. She is insistent that I look at her, and so I do. She laughs, though, it has the echo of a hundred wails and it fills the room along with the rumbling. As the entire room shakes around me, I can feel an almost physical sensation around my head that she is responsible for emitting, trying to hold my gaze. I become extremely frightened at this point at look away toward the door. She grunts repeatedly and continues to speak to me; I cannot recall what it was she was talking about, though. Her arms continue to relentlessly rip into the floor as she tries to make me look into her eyes.

Unexpectedly, I look right at her, taking a deep breath and, leaning forward, let out what sounds like 10 lion’s roaring simultaneously, causing her to scream and wail back at me. The room begins to fill with shadows and rays of light, both of which seem to be jostling for supremacy. Everything freezes…nothing moves at all…and I wake up.