Dreams, Part 2a: Two Dreams of Home

I realized early this morning – after waking up from a dream, appropriately – that I said in yesterday’s blog that I would write about the only two exceptions to my never having a dream set in my home, but then forgot to do it. So here they are:

The first was quick and basic. I was standing in the doorway between my living room and kitchen when my wife walked past, glared at me, and said, “No.”

“No what?” I replied. “I didn’t ask anything.”

“Whatever you were thinking of asking, the answer is no.”

And that was it. Pretty self-explanatory.

The second example was much more detailed, intriguing, and disturbing. It didn’t start out at home, but rather in what I knew in the dream was A.D. 9910. So…science fiction dream, pretty cool, ay?

Hold your horses.

I was viewing Earth from orbit and looking down upon a scarred, blasted, rocky landscape of what I knew had once been eastern North America – I was staring down towards the place where I had lived millennia before. No atmosphere, and no life survived anywhere on the planet’s surface; I got the feeling that it had all been destroyed long ago. What life there was surviving on Earth – if any did – was deep underground. What human life survived only did so, as far as the dream let me know, in small, buried computer-like virtual reality cubes.

Once this knowledge was imparted to me, I got the further information that those responsible for the cubes created their virtual realities by seeking past eras and “scanning” them in every detail – and by every detail, that meant it could also record things like mental and emotional patterns, to create an exact duplicate of the person they were scanning. There were two mes in the dream: The one dreaming, and the virtual reality creation that had been generated in one of these cubes as a way to propagate humanity. The setting in the cube was even one that I would have chosen for myself: a book-filled cabin atop a peaceful wooded mountain.

This setting was possible because the beings responsible for the cubes (who I never saw or heard, but was only psychically aware of) had scanned my house as it existed at that moment in the Spring of A.D. 2008. Which meant they scanned me, my wife, and the friend who was living with us at the time, plus all of the animals in the house. Just as important to these cube creators was the fact that they now also had the contents of all of my several thousand books.

Why this time, and why me? The answer I got was that I agreed to do it.(And under the circumstances of a ruined Earth, I certainly would have agreed.) I don’t know how they would have known about the agreement, except that somehow I had sent out the message about me wanting to preserve these books for the future despite whatever catastrophes might come – something I’ve probably been loudly and clearly psychically broadcasting for the last twenty years – and somehow they heard my invitation. (Nor am I sure how my consent would have also given consent for my wife and friend, but that didn’t seem to be an ethical concern for these creators.)

But wait  – the disturbing parts of the dream still had a course to finish running.

Once I had seen all of this and the scanning was done, the 21st century me was returned to my body. I had the sensation of floating back into it, and could see my bedroom in front of me as it would appear from my position in the bed, except slowly moving as I sunk back down into my flesh. I could see the shades of sunlight through the window, the cobweb at the top of the open closet, and the cluttered stacks of books.

Then I woke up and opened my eyes. And saw the shades of sunlight through the window, the cobweb at the top of the open closet, and the cluttered stacks of books all looking exactly as they had in the dream.

So, yeah. Maybe it was just an extraordinarily vivid dream born out of the brain of someone who’s read and written science fiction stories since childhood. Or maybe it really was some kind of dark glimpse of the far future.

On the other hand…if it was a vision rather than a mental concoction, it is kind of reassuring to know that thanks in part to my efforts to preserve knowledge and literature and art, all of those books that I had eight years ago might still exist somewhere eight thousand years from now.


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