It was one of those lion witch and the wardrobe dreams, except this time with a karma aspect that I assume I can attribute to Cloud Atlas. I would have preferred if it leapfrogged further into the future than it initially did; I dislike seeing children I’m given memories of loving while small then cease talking to me as adults (no doubt I would be an easy mother to hold a grudge against, but still it stings). And then to see their own children’s desperate bid for survival in a post-apocalyptic future become an arcade game in the future after that…not to mention my dogs growing ancient and limping around my parents’ dusty house, to which the two of us retreated when our particular word was collapsing.
It’s exhausting and sad. Particularly when your sub-conscious is so adroit at doing biting critique, painting your son as blindly adoring of you but (in order for this to be possible) a little dense, much like a golden retriever, while your daughter is as sharp and acerbic as you are, and thus amply equipped with the instruments to judge you and thereby find you lacking.
I hate dreams like that.
At one point—the details are foggy now—watching that video game be played in the future, it was made clear that the reason my son kept dying in the face of these sword-wielding reptilian creatures was that I had, by and large, been a bitch pretty much my whole life. I made holes for a couple of people and causes in my heart but everything else, the dream dictated I thought, could pretty much go to hell.
Which of course it proceeded to do.
Because of some baking I had to do for work, I had my alarm set to 4AM. I was grateful. If I’m dreaming of HB’s or my parents’ or my dogs’ actual demise, I can cry myself awake. But eons of evolution insisting that I stand there and watch the millennia prove that I and mine had it coming to us, doesn’t result in the dream-crying that makes you wake up choking, saved from whatever you were just experiencing. You just kind of stand there and take it.