It’s the dream that wake me. We’re outside, talking, and a plane flies overhead. We stop to watch, because the plane is impossibly low. Then we realize that the huge airliner is not flying, it’s tumbling, end over end, and coming closer. At first, we watch, thinking that it will impact somewhere miles away. By the time we realize that it will come down on top of us, it’s too late to run. We turn in a futile attempt to escape, the burning fuel and screaming, twisted metal now only seconds above us, but everything seems to be in slow motion.

Then, I’m awake, and standing shivering at the foot of the bed, drenched in sweat and breathing hard. It seemed so real, and yet it made no sense. Where were we standing? Outside “our” apartment, one we’ve never lived in. What were we talking about? Who were we? What did you look like? None of them register. It was a dream, and it came from the confused cacophony of an unfettered brain, a sorting engine trying desperately to order the mess that life has stuffed into it. It was just a dream; a temporary glitch where random neurons collide together to form a story, because our silly minds insist that there’s a story to everything.

It all seems so rational. So why am I still awake? Why am I afraid to close my eyes?