I’ve been dreaming at night a lot lately—actually it’s in the early morning—and, as with all dreams, they’ve been a tad bit odd. Okay, maybe not everyone’s dreams are odd, but mine always seem to be.
My mom thinks dreams have answers. For instance, she dreamed that her brother, Robert, drove around behind their house, and then drove off in a hole. That same night my niece, Tasha, fell asleep while driving home in the wee hours of the morning, and hit the bank, tearing one end of the front of her car all to heck and back. Mommy believes her dream is related to what happened to Tasha—just the wrong person and the wrong car in the wrong place.
The other night I dreamed that I returned to my childhood elementary school library where Stephen King sat in one of those itty bitty chairs at one of those low-to-the-ground, round tables. Two men in business suits hovered over him looking at a manuscript, and then one of them told him his latest novel sucked.
I approached them, took a seat in one of those itty bitty chairs, and stared at Mr. King. He spoke to me telepathically, saying, Here, Constant Reader, take and review. He held the manuscript out to me. I nodded and took it.
The next night I dreamed about an old three-story house that sits just off Highway 74. It’s a house that actually exists and is always up for sale. I often wish I had the money to buy it, because the house calls to me each time I pass it. I feel as if I belong there, but I know I’ll never be able to afford to purchase it. In my dream, I did buy it for a price of $22,000 dollars. When I approached the house, the ghosts of the previous few owners wouldn’t let me go inside, so I wouldn’t let them leave by pushing my weight against the door as they tried to push it and me outward.
I dreamed last night, too, but it’s fuzzy, and I only catch glimpses of a cartoonish woman with a long, black top-hat perched on her head, tugging on a papier-mâché snake.
Dreams are one of the great mysteries of the world. Why do we dream? Why are they sometimes so weird? What do they mean? Can they be prophetic? Maybe some dreams are, but I can’t imagine meeting Stephen King in my old school library, especially now since the library is a pottery lab. Are they scenes from a past life? Again, I would have had to live a pretty bizarre life if that were true.
I guess I’ll never know the answers to those questions until I cross over after death and the Great Teacher in the sky explains all.