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On account of my last post, I promised you the innermost workings of my mind when I am resting and in a deep REM sleep.  So without further ado, I tell the tale of my really f*cking weird-ass dream I had the other night.  And by “other night”, I think I am referring to Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. I digress.

I should warn you…this won’t make any sense and it is a mix of The Walking Dead meets Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland meets Underworld (I don’t know where I come up with this stuff.)

Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland.

Photo Courtesy.

The Walking Dead

The Walking Dead

Photo Courtesy.

Underworld

Underworld

Photo Courtesy.

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So I was at my old childhood house with Patrick and Boston Dog.  We were hiding from something, at this point in the dream I don’t know what it could have been.  All of a sudden a military style Hummer pulls up outside, Patrick and I can see through the window.  A few Underworld-looking people get out and set their sights on the house.  I peer over my shoulder and see that Patrick has a little red laser dot on his forehead.  He frowns and says they already spotted him and that I should go hide in the basement.

My old house.  It didn't have a pool when I lived there.  Just an awesome backyard.

My old house. It didn’t have a pool when I lived there. Just an awesome backyard.

I run down the stairs and suddenly I am in the finished basement of our current house (my family’s house up north), although it’s not really an exact representation of that basement, as the one in my dream has many twists and turn and doors leading to rooms within rooms.  As I try and navigate my way further and further into the catacombs that has become my basement, I realize that Boston Dog has been faithfully following me the entire time.  Score!  I have a travel companion!  I also realize that I had somehow walked into a room that contained multiple sliding glass doors and somehow now looks more like a log cabin than anything else.  I see Daryl, from The Walking Dead, and another no-face guy walking around the house.

Oh Daryl...

Oh Daryl…

Photo Courtesy.

They spot me.  I don’t know if they are with the “bad” people coming for me (I don’t know from whom or why I am running away).  I somehow think that if I dug underneath one of the logs (like a puppy trying to escape underneath a fence) I could somehow get away, unseen, by Daryl and company.  I don’t.  No-face guy grabs my arm.  I make up an excuse that there are people inside and they are cannibals and they were trying to eat me.  I had to get away and that they should do the same.

Daryl laughs at me and says, “Well if ya wanna get away, just run down there and stay to the right of the that there pond.  Just keep runnin’.  Don’t look back.”

I end up carrying a backpack full of unknown “supplies” and I am running toward a vast expanse of water that has appeared before me, in the back of my old childhood home.

Endless, surreal expanse of water.

Endless, surreal expanse of water.

Photo Courtesy.

Boston Dog still seems to be with me.  He looks up at me every once in a while almost as a confirmation that we are going in the right direction.  The smooth glass surface of the undisturbed deep blue water suddenly ripples and waves.   The water turns a dark red.  I know that it has turned to lava and the undeniable fear to not touch it shakes my core.  However, Boston Dog decides to skip right across it, the lava never scalding him once.  I, with hesitation, do the same.  It is the quickest way to move forward.

Lava? Water?

Lava? Water?

Photo Courtesy.

Finally, we reach some semblance of civilization.  It looks like a medieval castle (in pristine condition, I might add) mixed with a very large, and very spectacular prison (another Walking Dead cameo).  I know that I need to get to whatever lies beyond this prison castle but there is barbed wire as far as I can see in either direction.  I must go through the prison castle.  The guard, and the Governor’s right hand man (from the Walking Dead…seeing a pattern?) is standing by the gate.

Yea. This is Martinez.

Yea. This is Martinez.

Photo Courtesy.

Then I see another.  And another.  They are all the same person.  There are hundreds of them milling about the grounds and inside the prison castle, of which I happen to be running through now.  More sliding glass doors appear and I run through those.  There are now what seem to be lost children everywhere.  They have ratty, dirty clothes on.  They seem zombified? Maybe.  I don’t like the vibe I’m getting.  One of the Martinez guys stops me.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks.

Shaking, I say “Well, I need to get to the shore and I need to get through here.  Please, I have my dog with me!”

Apparently this warms the cockles of his heart and he lets me through.

Suddenly, the landscape changes again and I find myself on a narrow, dimly lit cobblestone street.  There are a group of people off to my left.  They are whispering to one another.  Someone sees and recognizes me.  I don’t know who any of them are.  They have no faces, just blurred smudges where their faces should be.  We start running, again, from what, I don’t know.  The place seems eerily familiar but yet, not.  All the sleepy storefronts seem fake, like a warped Disney theme park only Tim Burton could imagine.  I keep running down the wet dark cobblestone street.  The group I am running with slowly starts to thin out.  I am handed more “supplies” and this time it is explained to me, the contents of the satchel.  I am given weapons, ammunition, food, and even things for Boston Dog.  I also end up with a sweet Samurai sword like Michonne has (gahhh more Walking Dead!).  Finally, I notice that I am the only one running down the street.  Boston Dog is still by my side.

Michonne

Michonne

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At this point I wake up because Pat is getting ready for work.  He kisses me goodbye, goes out into the living room, turns off the T.V. and the lights, and leaves for work.  I sleepily nod at his sweetness, realize I have an obsessive love for my dog, pick him up from his little doggie bed and bring him up next to me, and now spooning with my pup, immediately fall back asleep and resume my dream.

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I find myself at a dead end.  The only way out is either back where I came from (no, don’t go back) or up the winding, rickety staircase in front me (wow, when did that get there).  Boston Dog leads the way.  I see dim light at the top of the stairs.  We somehow end up on the rooftop of the fake stores below.  We are in an open air barber shop.  The décor is dreadfully Cape Cod-y.  There is pickled wood wainscoting everywhere.  The salon chairs are white and the mirrors have white starfish attached to the sides.  Painfully Cape Cod-y.  I hear a voice behind me.  I turn and find a creepy, spindly man standing in the middle of the room with a pair of sharp scissors (painfully sharp).  I don’t know what makes him creepy but I have a bad vibe about his vampire like sallow skin and his greasy jet black hair, so carefully brushed back.  This man is going to hurt me.  As soon as I turn my back to him, he is going to hurt me.  Boston Dog is huddled under a table and whining.  I ask him in a hushed voice which direction the shore is in.  In points up a second set of stairs that lead to a field of some sort.  It’s sunny up there.  I want to go up there.  I can’t.  If I leave now, this man will kill me.  I swiftly unsheathe my Samurai sword and chop off his arm.  I was aiming for his head but missed.  He falls back into a salon chair as he holds his shoulder and open wound.  I run up the stairs leading to the field and call to Boston Dog to follow me.  I have an unshakable fear that I didn’t harm that man enough, he will follow me.  I get to the field unscathed, for now.  This field is not like any other.  As far as the eye can see, there are Victorian style living room furniture strewn about.  Densely scattered among the tall blades of green and amber grass are heaping piles of old furniture!

Field of Furniture

Field of Furniture

Photo Courtesy.

I struggle to make my way around and over it all.  Boston Dog darts under legs of tables and weaves effortlessly through hutches, buffets, armoires, and hall trees.  The dream continues here in endless loop.  I am somewhat conscious at this point.  I fitfully try to make progress through the field of furniture.  It’s like the dream where you are running but never go anywhere or scream and no sound comes out.  It’s like that.  I can’t seem to ever really get over the next piece of furniture.  I smell the ocean.  I am so close to the shore.  For some reason I need to get to the shore.  Boston Dog barks.  It sounds distant and muffled.  I panic.  My adventure buddy is becoming lost.

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I wake up.  Boston Dog is still nestled in the crook of my armpit.  I smile.  That was an awesome dream.  I have been trying to continue the saga since that night.  I haven’t dreamt since.

~Tarah

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