Dream Threads

   

  I was back in the old house; everything had a gritty, sandy look to it. I found myself treading carefully and forgetting to breathe, afraid that anything I did could send the whole place--my childhood home--crumbling to dust. It's always here though, in most of the dreams. But in all my years of Waking I've never seen the house look like this. It's old and dusty on its own, but here, in this boy's dream, the walls are void of color and a staleness hangs in the air. It is not the normal haze of memory. The familiarity of the banister fell away as I tried to swing my weight up the stairs to the bedrooms. Gray and coarse sand was piling at my feet, falling from the high ceiling.   

     Whoever this boy is, he knows I’m here and I need to get to him before he can get to me. I try to be quick up the stairs as they fall away into abyss below me. I made it to the top virtually unscathed. He tries to push me out with sandstorms and voices as I stagger down the hallway. The more he throws at me, the more pumped I get for the Awakening. This guy obviously is a force to be reckoned with.

     I usually can know the gender of the dreamer before I see them, and can judge their age by their landscapes and motifs. But this guy, I can’t get his age. But his skill and control make me think he’s been at this a while. People like him will usually feel me coming and wake up before I’ve even started. I’m hoping he doesn’t.

     Dreamers give me the words, the actions, the weapons. Behind my bedroom door I imagine a druggie as I pound with a heavy fist and a throaty and garbled roar. I think war veteran as I kick the door down with a combat boot and rifle in hand. I like it when they give me guns. So generic and so quick to see if they pass or fail. A hunched figure is sitting in the middle of the room, but I know he can see me. I felt a smirk split my face as I tossed the gun to the side and pulled something else out from behind my back. The little figure turned to face me, and his eyes pulled wide at the stone in my hand. His eyes not more than seven years old. In that moment, I was feeling what he was feeling. And he was so scared.