I had a conversation today with two colleagues. We talked about dreams, what they mean, how significant they are. The responses were varied. We recalled several amusing dreams we had over the year. Apparently, going to the toilet in public is a fear of being exposed in some way. Driving in a car at full speed and being unable to reach the brakes could mean your life is going too fast and you need to slow down.
I didn’t tell them about a recurring dream I had when living with my father during the worst times of my life.
All I can remember is this:
It starts at a gas station somewhere in the U.S. I know it was there from the way it looked. It is incredibly busy with lots of people hurrying around. It is also scorching hot, so it can’t be London. My father has filled the tank with petrol. My car door is open, possibly due to the heat. As he leaves to pay the bill, I notice something on the ground by my car door. I get out and get onto my knees to see what it is. Suddenly, my hair is tugged back violently and my throat has been slit. Blood is pouring out uncontrollably. I can see myself as if I have stepped out of my body. My father is standing behind me with a bloodstained knife. He is smiling as I collapse to the ground.
Then, I wake up.