Last Night’s Dream
I know my dream was longer, at least my brain is telling me it’s longer, but I don’t recall how it started. When my memory of the dream begins, I’m walking with my favorite nephew (They’re all my favorite) and we need to get somewhere in a hurry. We (I? him?) decide to cut through a self-storage lot. We didn’t think it fully through and when we get to the back, we’re stuck on an island and everything is flooded. We try to make our way across the mess of branches and rocks when I find an old, rusty knife.
That’s when a homeless person comes rushing up and starts yelling at us for violating his space. We’re not supposed to be there. No one is supposed to be there. We need to get away from there in a hurry or he’ll hurt us. My nephew had kept going and was now in a precarious position. We got out of there, I gave the man back his knife and we left. Now that it was getting dark, we needed to be even faster in getting where we needed to go. Though we did spend time trying to catch tadpoles in the water. I guess we weren’t in that much of a hurry.
We wound up on a sidewalk walking past a lot of other homeless people. Most of them far dirtier than the street they were on. None of them wanted anything. None of them begged, but they were all in a line waiting for something. Well, all of them save one man that stuck out.
There was something wrong with his legs, that much I knew due to him lying stomach down on a wheeled device. He had his arms removed just below the elbow and in order to move, he had to crunch his stomach and then release much like an inchworm. He yelled at me when I asked if he needed any help. He said something like “Do I look like a cripple?” I was a bit taken aback, but we let him be.
We wanted to find out what the line was for so we went inside the building the homeless people were waiting outside. There was a lot of orange and blue and greens, but I didn’t recognize the company. There was a large woman dressed in dirty rags arguing with a little man in a suit, balding, wearing glasses and looking quite annoying with the large woman shaking her fist at him. The complaint was that the company had used images of these homeless people in an ad campaign that proved to be highly successful and now these people were the ‘face’ of the company. Unfortunately, because they were homeless, they were given a small fee of $5 for their picture and made to sign a release allowing the company to use the images any way they wanted. Now these people wanted to be properly compensated. The arguing got louder, the people flooded the building, and my favorite nephew and I were late.
Then I woke up.
What does it all mean? Where does my brain come up with these things? Where do stories come from? We may never know.
Until Next Time!