Dream Journal

Context: I worked at Turner Broadcasting.

It’s bright and sunny, and the colors are vibrant. I’m walking along this reddish orange dirt path. There are rolling hills of bright green grass on the right side. On the left is a rising rocky cliff. It feels like World of Warcraft. I come to a cave opening that is interesting to me. It looks like carved ruins. I crawl in through a square opening into a dimly lit room. Ah, I remember this. Room after room, interesting shapes, many paths, long sections. But it’s dim, and feels claustrophobic. I know it very well. I’ve spent months in there, through many dreams. But I don’t want to go back in. I crawl back out to the sunny path.

A tall fellow on the path sees me. He asks me about it. I said “I used to go in the Catacombs all the time.” Catacombs! The word sort of occurs to me right then. He said he did once, too. I continue on.

Somewhere along here I break down crying, sobbing deeply. I can’t now recall why. Was it about my poor health? The Catacombs? Someone is with me, a friend. I feel refreshed afterwards, and keep walking.

Everyone’s walking the same way down the path. Something in bold and vibrant colors accosts someone up ahead, and I figure it will do the same to me. I keep walking forward, and it does. I spring out of myself and fly quickly up off the path, above the cliff and across a bit of trees, until it can’t catch me. I spring back to myself and it’s gone. I keep walking. The vibrant thing is awaiting up ahead. It comes at me again, more forcefully. It’s asking questions. I fly out of myself. “No!” I say, not even hearing the question and list of answers. It asks again and we jump again — “No!” After each flight we slow down, then I spring out at the next question. No!.. No!.. No!.. No!.. then it’s over and I’ve sprung to a large open field.

I’ve won some sort of honor. Something flies into my hand, like bandages but with writing. There’s something like a trophy display on the ground that looks like a bike rack. It has several of these bandages attached. I got the high score in a certain category — the 2nd to get it. I place the bandage in the appropriate spot on the rack.

Then I’m back on the path. The vibrant blur is a girl, about my age, with reddish hair, wearing some kind of World of Warcraft armor, and she’s beautiful. We talk for a while. I’m enraptured. She tells me there was some Java code built into the awards device and that it was her voiceover back at the device. We talk about the path, about the horrible ghost image of some dark woman who could grab me and not release, cold like death, frozen in time. She says she can take those away, or generate similar ones. I ask her to show me how. There are so many more details.

The path began as a road outside a fenced factory. I was inside the fence and people were clamoring to get inside, wearing disguises, and hurting themselves by sliding down the fence. . . . The company/factory felt like Turner Broadcasting — big and safe. I knew people there.

References: Java is a programming language.