Well that was irritating. I dreamed. There was a waterfall and rocks and a pool. It was like a recreation center set up. The waterfall was actually a slide. There may have been more than one recreation center. Anyway, lots of water and swimming pools and a nice long story that I told myself to remember right before waking, and then just cannot do it. So irritating. Really!
So since I have no real new dream to write now, I will just write one from the past. I wrote it in my journal, so I will write it here now. It's from 2006. But another of the haunting ones.
There was a guy I liked. We were all in a room, us and a lot of people, sleeping on cots, like what we all did in New Orleans and Mississippi when we volunteered for Katrina. But it wasn't either of those places. There were a lot of kids. Just as many adults too. Families, really. And there was this cool stairway that went up several floors (although the sleeping room had a high enough ceiling to be open to the top of the four-story stairway). The stairway was in the room, off to the side. It was enclosed. It was the straight kind that goes back and forth as it goes up. On each reversal landing, it had an open window without glass, and you could hear the people below. After I came down the first time, I saw the guy I liked was there, a few cot-rows away. Never talked to him at this time. I don't remember much, until I was helping or comforting this little boy for some reason. And then soldiers came in. It was some sort of genocide, and these people were rounding everyone up and taking them away. I was near the boy's cot area, nearly underneath the stairs. I looked over at the guy and we both didn't talk at all still. We both wanted to help each other and keep each other safe, but that would have hurt the boy. In reality, neither the guy nor myself were in danger, probably because we were there to help the people, kind of like aide workers; we weren't a part of them. But the boy was in danger. My guy could have come over to protect me, but it would have drawn attention to the boy, who was close enough under the stairs to have, for now, evaded the attention of the soldiers forcing people to leave. And of course, I was not a target, and I didn't need protection. There was only one chance for the boy, who was about five. I would take him and hide with him up the useless stairs... useless because they didn't even go all the way to the top of the ceiling, I soon realized. They went nowhere. My plan was to hide on the abandoned stairs. So my guy turned away with a look in his eyes. We both knew he'd be safe. We both didn't know about my safety anymore. The look in his eyes as he left me, as I left him. I led the boy up the stairs, "handling it on my own," as I both had to, and could. Also, this act allied myself with the boy and the people; I was now in danger as well. All of this was communicated by myself and my guy with a look halfway across a room. We also just knew we'd meet up with each other, and where... on a boat in the sea, to escape the genocide. I would meet him there, after leaving my hiding place. So he left. He'd have rather not, but knew it was useless, even harmful, to stay. The people were being cleared out of the room (brightly lit, with colorful towels and sleeping bags all around). I was protecting/shielding this boy. We went upstairs, to the third or fourth landing, making sure to stay below the window openings on each landing, and me encouraging him to stay silent. His family was gone, of course. We were probably safe, but I decided to go higher. We went up more landings (if there are four floors, there were eight landings, is what I mean). All the people below were cleared out, and only soldiers were left. I went up, and realized there were stairs to a fifth story, perhaps up to the roof. But they weren't stairs of the same sort; they were open, loose, and cracked, and as we took the risk to go up them to safety, we were heard and seen. My attempt to be safer put us in danger we hadn't feared before. The soldiers started to come after us, up the stairs. Now; pause. Since I dream lucidly, I knew I was dreaming. I can control my dreams but don't very often anymore because 1) they are more interesting when I don't and 2) I'm rarely afraid in my dreams, so why bother? But here's the thing; the story was almost over. I just wanted the story to continue. So I changed the set; now there was a secret way down the stairs, in the wall, down the middle. We would go that way. We entered through the opening which was quite ingeniously hidden, but I won't describe it, beyond that it had to do with a cleft in the way for the fire-sprinkler system. We got in, and made our way down. It was cramped and dark, although my omni-seeing story-teller's eye still saw the men and light of outside on the stairs, and the colors in the room below. We got to the bottom, and were looking out the opening, waiting for the soldiers to 'realize' they'd been mistaken about seeing anyone up the stairs, and to leave. We would then make our way out, then outside the door I was looking through, then through the streets under cover of darkness, through the dangerous city streets. But we would be safe, and no one would recognize the boy as one of the victimized people as soon as we left the tell-tale building (because aren't most genocides generally about invisible differences?). People would think he was my brother or friend or son or whatever they wanted to think. And as no one had as of yet IDed me as being allied with the people and they wouldn't now as they wouldn't know the boy was one of them... all we had to do was get from the hidden place to outside the large building, into the dark. And then to the boat. Problem was... the story stopped. I couldn't think how to end it... how to get to the man I loved. How would he react when I got there? I loved him, and while I knew he cared about me, I wasn't sure he loved me back. Kind of doubted it. Not anything besides loving me as a friend or sister. And also, how to get there? The omniscient story-teller's eye was closing, and I was waking up.
The boy and I were for all purposes safe. And my guy probably was too. But no surety. Did he make it to the boat? And I never saw him again. I just woke up, with this sick longing inside. I had once again taken care of myself... and another, the little boy. Once again without anyone to care for me. And the guy by leaving us had also protected the boy. We had both sacrificed. And the guy and I never talked... but still we knew, just by looking at each others' eyes. But... it was this empty satisfaction... is that what all sacrifice is like? Not glorious like in movies. Just hard, lonely, it empties you and replaces itself with a fact that you have done good... a cold, hard, fact. But no warm comfort. Just a sick longing. And I still have not heard or seen the guy or found out if he ever made it to safety.
It was a haunting dream.
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