A couple of nights ago I had this dream. I was visiting a friend I had met through Las Madres. Like a lot of women I met there, she didn’t work. Her husband ran a business. They were uncomfortably rich.
In the dream, she showed me the gigantic house she had built and, like many of the women in her situation, was unhappy with. She had decided her palatial mansion was just too small.
“There’s never enough room for my family when they come to visit,” she said, leading me outside.
Out back, they were building a small hotel on to her house. No, seriously, it was a hotel. She was even having them install a Comfort Inn sign.
I woke up. I went back to sleep.
I dreamed I was a convict who had just been released from a rehabilitation facility up on a hill. They took him to a small, idyllic town that had embraced an agrarian lifestyle: large grassy fields, no cars, quaint 60s shops. I had no memory of my crime or my imprisonment and that frustrated me; it frustrated me so much I couldn’t fit in.
Finally, I snuck out of town and went back to the place on the hill. It was deserted, with a few empty buildings that looked just like those in the town. When I found nothing in the buildings, I went over to the other side of the hill.
Only, there was no other side of the hill.
Everything, as far as I could see, was fire and lava and burnt rock. The entire world had been reduced to a flaming wreck and all that was left was a tiny island of grass in the middle of a sea of hell. The world was dead, and the people in town were all that was left.
I woke up. I stayed up.
|Like that, minus the futuristic cities.|