Dreams Are Junk

I was on my way home in the dark, although it wasn’t so dark I couldn’t see the gun. There was a car parked near my house, and sitting in it were four young black dudes: two in the front, two in the back. One in the back was holding the gun, it was silver or silvery. I feared for a moment he was going to shoot the other guy, but he was simply showing it to him.

I can’t remember if I spoke to them, but I do remember taking out a pen and writing down the car registration number: B77 3701.

The next thing I remember, I was in the hall and four men were walking up the short path. They were all white, one was my neighbour of 26 years, the other three were drinking buddies, they were carrying bottles of beer. Nothing unusual about that, I thought. I went upstairs, and the door to my apartment was ajar, the living room light on. I pushed the door open and confronted the low table, it was bare; someone had broken in and stolen my computer. It was then I realised my apartment doesn’t look like this, for one thing I don’t enter it by the living room door. Then I woke up.

I’ve had vivid or fairly vivid dreams like this before. The last one I had was of a plane crashing into a building 9/11 fashion. And?

I ran B77 3701 through Google. I realised it wasn’t a real vehicle registration number; I found out it was something for sale on eBay, something to do with fishing rods.

Dreams are junk. We have them all the time. Some we remember, most we forget. Let them go, the only dreams that mean anything are those you can chase in the real world.

August 13, 2021