The kind of dream that keeps you awake at night
I have always enjoyed flying. Until my son was born. Trips that require airborne, even if the final destination promises white sandy beaches, coconut trees and cocktail drinks by the sunset, become just dreadful. The fear builds up at the boarding gate and climaxes when the pilot announces “ready to take off”. I could feel my heart pounding at my throat, my palms drench with cold sweats and my body so tense, every nerve taut, ready to explode. I hate flying.
Last Saturday morning I woke up feeling dried tears which had trickled from eye down to the side of my temple. I wasn’t aware I was crying in my slumber but the images of my dream were as vivid as the dancing figures of our bed sheets. I, my son and hubby had just died in a plane crash. We had a pleasant journey and when the plane was about to land, something went terribly wrong. As I look out the window, the Eiffel tower was fast growing. And then a big crash somewhere on an isolated beach.
The next scene was in a big white-lighted basement. I was aware of being ushered to a room with my hubby. There were people seemingly alive but I just knew they were dead. I felt I was alive and yet knew I was dead too. In the room there were tables with dead bodies covered in white sheets. I went to check an adjacent room looking for my son and saw him sitting next to tiny bodies also covered with white sheets. I cried of joy hugging him in my arms and saying “he is alive!” But an usherette took David from my arms telling me he belongs to the other dead children and I and my hubby must go to the other room where the adults laid down dead.
Then the three of us were shown in a room semi-private, facing a bathroom shared by the others. I had the feeling this room is where we are going to live for the rest of our “death-life”. No one made the rules but I understood that we were not allowed to go out because outside is where the “living people live”. Some people there didn’t seem to understand that we were dead and I actually had shown them on television our plane that went down.
I forced myself to go out; my son and hubby suddenly disappeared in the picture. And I found myself in a middle of a place surrounded with boulders, half-swimming, half-flying in white steady fogs. There were people there, I didn’t see them, but I could feel their presence. And I showed to them the way out, climbing over the rocky boulders.
I woke up with the movement of hubby’s body rising up. I stayed half-awake, touching the side of my eye, feeling what were once tears. When I felt dadou’s lips touching my cheeks “bonjour mamou”, I replied, “I had a terrible dream.” He sleepily said, “tell me about it.” “We just died in a plane crash, all three of us!” I heard “bon, I’ll make us coffee!” and quickly disappeared from the room.
Then, the following day, Sunday, I heard the news of a plane crash in
Russia.
The weekend was rather hectic as it was the Barrio Fiesta, so I had forgotten for a day or two the nightmare that sends me goose bumps. But yes, I can’t help it. And I’m desperately trying to avoid news related to this stuff before I completely become paranoid. And hell, I’m still blogging it!!!
Last Saturday morning I woke up feeling dried tears which had trickled from eye down to the side of my temple. I wasn’t aware I was crying in my slumber but the images of my dream were as vivid as the dancing figures of our bed sheets. I, my son and hubby had just died in a plane crash. We had a pleasant journey and when the plane was about to land, something went terribly wrong. As I look out the window, the Eiffel tower was fast growing. And then a big crash somewhere on an isolated beach.
The next scene was in a big white-lighted basement. I was aware of being ushered to a room with my hubby. There were people seemingly alive but I just knew they were dead. I felt I was alive and yet knew I was dead too. In the room there were tables with dead bodies covered in white sheets. I went to check an adjacent room looking for my son and saw him sitting next to tiny bodies also covered with white sheets. I cried of joy hugging him in my arms and saying “he is alive!” But an usherette took David from my arms telling me he belongs to the other dead children and I and my hubby must go to the other room where the adults laid down dead.
Then the three of us were shown in a room semi-private, facing a bathroom shared by the others. I had the feeling this room is where we are going to live for the rest of our “death-life”. No one made the rules but I understood that we were not allowed to go out because outside is where the “living people live”. Some people there didn’t seem to understand that we were dead and I actually had shown them on television our plane that went down.
I forced myself to go out; my son and hubby suddenly disappeared in the picture. And I found myself in a middle of a place surrounded with boulders, half-swimming, half-flying in white steady fogs. There were people there, I didn’t see them, but I could feel their presence. And I showed to them the way out, climbing over the rocky boulders.
I woke up with the movement of hubby’s body rising up. I stayed half-awake, touching the side of my eye, feeling what were once tears. When I felt dadou’s lips touching my cheeks “bonjour mamou”, I replied, “I had a terrible dream.” He sleepily said, “tell me about it.” “We just died in a plane crash, all three of us!” I heard “bon, I’ll make us coffee!” and quickly disappeared from the room.
Then, the following day, Sunday, I heard the news of a plane crash in
Russia.
The weekend was rather hectic as it was the Barrio Fiesta, so I had forgotten for a day or two the nightmare that sends me goose bumps. But yes, I can’t help it. And I’m desperately trying to avoid news related to this stuff before I completely become paranoid. And hell, I’m still blogging it!!!
