I am not a lucid dreamer. It’s not one of my gifts, but recently I have found myself in lucid dreams. Last night was such a night. I dreamt several odd dreams (One involving three mice, my mom, and a cat, for instance), but the last one stood out to me. Namely because it was lucid, and it felt incredibly tangible and fleshed out as a result.
In my dream, I was in my apartment. I had just woken up and made my coffee in the French press. I went back to my room to lie down while I waited for it to brew. It wasn’t until I woke up again that I realized I had fallen asleep. I could hear voices and movement in the apartment. I exited my room to see my roommate and other visitors that I didn’t recognize. Everyone was polite (Some were in suits, though others were in odd outfits ranging from hipster to futuristic) and milling about with drinks in hand. I ignored them and walked over to the counter to have some coffee before I addressed the strangers—only to discover there’s no coffee. And in fact there’s no French press. “Who the hell took my coffee?” I ask and turn to look back at the living area where everyone is standing, and I realize then that I’m not in my home. The apartment is decorated in a light camel-colored wood grain with lacquered red doors and stainless steels accents.
I don’t know where I am or how I got there. I begin asking some of the visitors. An older Black man in a suit with a moustache tells me we’re in Austin, TX. I’m floored. He says we’re east of I-35 off Cesar Chavez St. I seek out my roommate, who’s in a black gown and pearls, to ask her how I got here and what happened. Everyone is polite and addresses me kindly. No one is concerned whatsoever with my apparent amnesia or dissociation. I try to explain to my roommate that the last thing I remember is being in our apartment in New York, and she seems to matter-of-factly accept this.
I tell everyone I have to go home and leave the apartment. I’m extremely concerned and mildly panicky about how I could not only lose time but space as well. My roommate is walking with me down the path outside the apartments and telling me she’ll take me home. I tell her she should stay behind with her friends; it appears to be something important. I explain that it’s been awhile since I’ve lived in Austin, but I still vaguely remember the bus system and will figure it out. The last thing I remember is walking across the complex’s lawn toward where I thought the bus stop should be.
The next thing I remember is being in the back seat of an old 1980s-style crew cab truck. The seats were a dark blue fabric that was faded from wear and fraying in places. There was a lighter blue seam on the cushioned seats. An individual, whose gender was ambiguous, sat at the driver’s seat. They had long pale blonde hair and attractive features with prominent cheekbones, a round forehead, and slightly pointed chin. They were very slender and had long, lithe limbs. They were beautiful in an austere way. Most striking were their pale, artic blue eyes that considered me through the rearview mirror. When they spoke, they had a feminine voice, so I felt they were female. I was very concerned that I had lost time and space again, and I was afraid of what this meant.
The driver explained that they—I noticed there was a similar woman in the passenger’s seat as well as a naked baby riding freely in the backseat with me—were going to Riker’s Island and would give me a lift home.
“Woah! I live in Brooklyn. I’m going there,” I told her.
She alluded to a man in Austin who told her I was going somewhere else.
“No, no. I live in Brooklyn. I need to go home.”
She agreed that she would drop me off at home, and much like the visitors at the apartment earlier, was unconcerned by my evident confusion and panic.
I sized her up from the backseat and knew I shouldn’t accept a ride from someone I didn’t know, but I also was so disoriented from discovering myself in new places that I held my ground for the moment. I wasn’t eager to find myself elsewhere and have to start this process all over again.
“Riker’s Island is really far from where I live,” I told her, testing her. “It doesn’t seem right to make you take such a roundabout trip.”
“Oh, you know,” she said kindly, “everything’s connected. You take one street, and you find yourself on four others.”
In my mind, as she was saying this, I saw maps of Austin and Brooklyn in a grid line up along one seam—or one road—and folding to show time and space bending to allow us to travel between them. I understood instantly they were connected in some way and accessible along this route. Everything, it would seem, was accessible if you knew where they connected.
Next thing I know I’ve jumped through time and space again: We’re on a train, walking toward a private cabin. At first glean, it seems like a contemporary train, but I’m soon exposed to a side of the train that is futuristic. Everything is white, so white in fact it almost glows. There are no hard edges, only soft curving lines leading from one space to the next. The metal accents shine as if freshly polished. The cabin is comfortable. I settle on one cushion with the baby, and the two women settle on the cushion opposite me.
For once, I’m not disturbed that I don’t recall how I got to the train. The women are both kind and pleasant, and I find myself trusting them. We talk about a variety of things, and I play with the baby who’s wearing nothing, not even a diaper. She is plump with fat rolling along her arms and legs, and in spite of her infancy has sage-like bright eyes, always observing everything around her. I called her Hazel, but the woman corrects me: Her name is Twaiel (or something equally unusual). I bounce the baby in my lap, and the woman—the driver, who does most of the talking—warns me to be careful since the baby isn’t wearing a diaper. I assure her it’s ok. There’s a false window behind me in the cabin, and if pressed upon, creates a light trail; this isn’t it’s purpose but a unique effect of my body temperature against the glass. I start to draw on this, and the baby is entranced and giggling. The baby takes my elbow like she can use me to draw and is doubly amused when my hand moves and draws at her command.
Both the women are laughing too, though more demurely, until the driver points out in a flat tone that the baby’s peed on me. Sure enough I can feel it seeping through my white shorts, and I laugh it off, pointing out that I should have known better since the baby wasn’t wearing a diaper. Soon we arrive at the next stop, and I’m aware of people filing in and out of the train. All too late, I realize the two women and the baby have disappeared from the train.
I run after them and stand on the platform. We’re at an average-sized train station, somewhere out in nature. I can see green trees (unnaturally green, it’s worth noting), smell the fresh air, and feel the sunshine. But I’m too preoccupied feeling betrayed to enjoy such things.
“You said you would take me home. I don’t have any clue where I am!”
The driver looks contrite and admits, “We realized it was too far of a journey, so we stopped here. You’ll have better luck finding your way home from this place.”
“Are you kidding me?” I growl. “I have no idea where I am! I didn’t even say anything when the baby pissed on me!”
Again, the driver looks saddened by my predicament but explains that they can’t help me any further.
I angrily storm away from the train station, only to remember that I left something important on the train–my wallet–and how can I get home without the cash to pay for a ride. I sprint back to the train to retrieve it. I’m worried that I don’t have a train ticket, since the woman never gave me one (and I don’t remember ever boarding the train) and that someone will stop me. To my relief, no one is checking tickets at the gate, so I’m able to hop onto the train right before the doors close and reclaim my forgotten goods.
I find my way into a futuristic-style food car. I order something to eat and a drink, and I sit at the bar mulling over my options. I try to figure out how I keep losing track of time and space. Is there something wrong with me? I’m scared I won’t find my way home. I know if I stay on the train, I may be getting farther and farther away, but I also am afraid to leave the train because I don’t know what’s outside.
Somehow I choose to wake up, very confused and disoriented but in my body again. I have no idea where I went, only that I felt very far from home and lost along the journey. I believe the two women may have been Pleidian, and I don’t believe they were my personal guides. It felt more that they were the baby’s guides and had taken pity on me when they noticed how lost I was.
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