I had a dream early this morning. There was a big house, a sort of boarding house, the purpose of which wasn't clear but there were other women living there. I saw a staircase with a mirror at one end, many balconies, secret rooms, alcoves. I became friendly with one young woman there. I came to realize that who one sought out and who one befriended were entirely dependent on one's own choices. Was it a sort of half-way house for friends?
Then suddenly I was out on a balcony that overlooked the ocean. The balcony is made of glass, and I can see the ocean in glorious detail: a sunlit day, the water deep green and blue with a lot of surf. And then there's a plane, a giant jet careening down from the sky and just a few feet away from hitting the water, which is now being churned violently from the massive force of the jet. Its doors are opening. A few people jump out to their deaths despite nearly being in the water already. I am very close on the glass balcony watching all this, terror-stricken and mute. The noise is almost deafening. Then I woke up.
Rarely do I remember a dream in any detail at all, usually even the fragments are gone by the time I'm fully awake. But this time the detail was so vivid that my voice faltered while relating it to J, a good twelve hours later. (He recalls dreams in much greater detail, usually beginning with something like,"there was a cabbage, a purple moon and it was Tuesday...").
No one can truly interpret dreams, I believe. But now I wish someone did. Images that are so critical in their vividness, that affected my brain with their urgency, and left a memory that didn't fade with usual dream-like flimsiness, must mean something.