Goodbye, quality sleep.
Real life context: I haven’t met my boyfriend’s parents yet.
Dream: We’re at a house with wood floors. Boyfriend introduces me to his parents, his grandmother, and a woman I assumed to be his auntie or family friend. I’ve never seen any of them before. The way they looked at me, the malice in their eyes, was the kind that made you want to hide underneath Patrick Star’s rock.
Doing anything to avoid their gaze, I looked down at my feet and noticed I was wearing sandals, a tank top, and a frilly cute skirt– and for some reason I realized his dad hated sandals. I looked up to see this skinny Asian man with glasses forcing a smile. On the inside he was yelling, “I hate you!”
I was the leader during a zombie apocalypse. I decided who could come into my house. Strangers knocked the glass sliding doors and windows, among them a desperate looking blue-eyed Italian woman and her mom. They managed to convince someone to let them in through the kitchen door. The woman tried to stab me with a knife. I was with two other people and we beat them into submission. At one point I was forced to let a group of “immigrants” (predominantly white American) into the house because my mom was soft on the children. Ugh. Their clothes were tattered, dirt spread across their arm and faces, and held cereal boxes like teddy bears.
People were afraid to die. Many of them got drunk on vodka or whatever they could find. I rallied everyone in a room and stood on a platform, going on about how we had strength in numbers, and how we could prevail against the undead if we worked together. I had a plan. I was confident. But I could see some of them staring out in the distance, past me and past the predicament we were in. I left them to explore a maze-like mall, where agents dressed in black and white were suspicious of me. Every man for himself.
I was watching a music video that featured a bunch of famous country singers. I recognized none of them. Michael Jordan said, “You know I’d do anything to be on a track with you!” to one of the artists in the end, then proceeded to sing a beautiful duet with her.
The next video was by Beyoncé. They interviewed different high schoolers, all with bold attitudes, and the video cut to them dancing aggressively in-sync. The whole time it kept eluding to Beyoncé as a deer. There was also a reoccurring inside joke with Michael Jackson and cans of corn. I couldn’t figure out the symbolism.
When I thought it was over, Jay Z popped in wearing a tux to pick her up from the set. They get into a luxurious black car. Jay’s at the wheel apologizing that he couldn’t see her during the set breaks on the account of his cold.
“I really wanted to see you,” he said and sniffled. When B remained quiet, Jay started getting a little crazy in love (ha). “Okay so I go on and on about wanting to see you and be with you, but you can’t even say nothing?”
They pulled up to a Mexican restaurant sitting on a hill. The young Latino host didn’t recognize them as celebrities, told them they could sit wherever, and Jay started to walk to the back. The restaurant’s checkered pavement curved at a slope, like a hill. The diner-like pattern seemed odd in contrast to the tables lined in white cloth, champaign glasses, and a burning candle. The floor was just waxed B’s wearing low heels. She almost slipped and fell trying to catch up with Jay. I woke up at 5:35 am.
My family was living in a huge house, the ones that go up for more than $250,000. For some reason Dad decided to take us out for a drive and we parked on a country road. Parked on the opposite side were two of my relatives; one staring dead into space, the other glaring at us.
The sky was a blush of auburn. I followed Mom out of the car to see smoke rising in the distance. It came from the burning houses in one of my relative’s neighborhood. Flames and smoke engulfed the entire circle drive and ate away at everything except my relative’s disarranged, green roofed house with a patch covering one of its windows.
When I told Dad about the dream, he said, “You know there’s a Chinese saying that dreams often reflect the opposite of reality. Go ask Mom and see what she says. Don’t tell her I told you this.” I run upstairs.
“Dreams come true,” Mom said. “Your dream will become a reality. Don’t listen to a word he says.”
What are your dreams about? How often do you dream?