mi devas skribi tiun songxo

I am working in a basement classroom. I know I’m working for the same people in waking life, but things are different. How different? We’re all working from school desks rather than at regular, adult desks. I’m sitting in the back.

Work/class is letting out, I realize the oven is on but I can’t determine which burner is still going. From left to right, I begin nudging and tweaking the knobs until I’m sure the burners are out. The burners are electric, but I “knew” they were going the whole time and I feared there was a gas leak.

After the crush of bodies leaves, I turn around in my chair to review everything stacked up along the back wall of the classroom. It’s books, tons and tons of books that I don’t recall from waking life. Then again, after getting married, I haven’t had much time to read nor the werewithal. One book that catches my eye is about two Nazi-esque kids, and how one becomes disillusioned with his government’s philosophies. I think this came up because I read about Petr Ginz early Sunday evening. The kids featured on the cover weren’t Nazis, but they were fascists. I think one kid’s turn means there is hope.

Heading upstairs with the book in my backpack, there’s a strawberry blonde woman I don’t know sitting at a desk in the hallway. She’s checking everyone’s bags as they leave to prevent theft. The books are okay to take, but some people are going too far. She asks to check my knapsack saying that I took too many Herman Melville books. I shrug, mention I only took the fascist kid book, and as she rummages through the book isn’t there. Rather the backpack is full of papers and garbage. Looking outside, the sun has set and checking the clock I realize it’s only 7:30 p.m.. I have to leave.

Out in the parking lot, I can’t find the car. It’s the 1995 green Cougar. I start to stress and panic, which is compounded by the fact that I realize I can not find my earbuds. The earbuds I always wear at work. Without them, work is less pleasant.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

I head into a supermarket and wait along the deli counter. Folks are queued up along the counter but there’s one person who’s standing back giving the impression the line may be vertical rather than horizontal. He’s bald, a bit taller than me, and just an obstacle. When I tap him to ask about where the queue begins, he turns and I recognize his face from yesterday’s dream. I said that in my head during this dream, “Hey, you’re from yesterday’s dream.”

He has such a heavy brow, his eyes are hidden under folds of muscle or fat. Over his right eye, maybe around 10:00 o’clock, there’s a deep depression about the width of a finger going into his skull. As the skin goes towards this terrifying dent, the skin becomes darker ’til it’s nearly black Nearly. The guy’s kind of like a terrifying caricature of King Kong Bundy, and even then I don’t think it’s an apt enough description.

The dream ends around there. Trying to figure out if there’s any meaning here.

Chris S.
Anomalist, esperantist, cyclist, typist, dodecaphile, ailurophile, and oneiromancer. Chris lives near the shore with his wife, cats, and the Jersey Devil in his backyard.

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