Okay. Technically my dream was two nights ago, since I know you care. Anyway, do you remember when I wrote this post about what I’d do in the event of a house fire? No? Well you should go read it then. I had a dream about exactly that. My house was on fire. Only it wasn’t my house I live in now or one I’ve lived in before, it was one I didn’t recognize. But it was mine.
During this dream of mine everyone got out safely, except me. I don’t know what happened because the last thing I remember before waking up was my brother (or was it my dad?) berating me about what I was doing. I was grabbing as many of those heavy duty trash bags as I possibly could and I was throwing my books inside of them to save them from the fire. But I was crying while I was doing this. I have nothing against anyone who needs a good cry every now and then, but it just seemed odd to me. And I was telling them how they didn’t understand how much I needed my books. I don’t know what the heck is wrong with me. I don’t even hardly read! Oh well.
Have you ever had a bookish dream that left you scratching your head? Or am I the only crazy in the room?
On this day in 2014 I published Things we do Rather Than Write.