As someone who tries to keep a log of their dreams (and fascinated by others), I'm looking forward to the entries. Here's mine from a couple of years back that I still think about.
In my dream, I am on a farm, and I am busy making some sort of spaghetti dish while my family bicker.
And there is an old man I assume is also family, but I can't tell. And my family are moaning at him, saying that he doesn't ever do anything, that he's useless, that he can't even make pasta dishes like I can. And I'm scared that they may find out that I can't either, and somehow I've always managed to cook pasta dishes without them finding out.
So I feel a strange kinship with this old man, who is supposedly so useless, so I leave cooking and, sitting down next to him on an ancient sofa, ask him what he does. And he gets this look in his eyes, and pulls out a book. He starts turning the pages, and it's the plane emblems of old fighter pilots. "It is my duty." he says huskily, "to find out where they died."
And I don't know if it's the way he says it, but I'm filled with unease as he turns more and more of the pages, with hundreds of epitaphs and photos of old WWII pilots. I'm convinced this old man, who is now staring directly at me, past me, as he continues to turn the pages, is somehow involved, somehow responsible for their deaths during the war.
And then I am in front of a disused vault door, revealed from behind a bookcase overgrown with weeds and plants, and I have been here before. This is a room from an older dream, from a city on the sea with a million abandoned red-clay hovels that look like the cliff dwellings of the Mesa Verde, a vast dead metropolis.
The inside of the vault is infused with a green haze and hanging motes of... something, dust and pollen and debris, and rusted, moss-covered machinery everywhere, and I'm concerned about breathing, being there without a gas mask, without protection.
And my mother tells me I should stop worrying as she pulls a lever on one of the machines, which pops out a metal drawer, that we'll find the documents, but I can already tell that the place has been ransacked. I can see more vault doors inside, pried open, peeled back, vaults within vaults, all broken.
I step out to go talk to the military personnel about it, and the officer at the border post in his three-piece suit tells me it's theirs now, but I don't believe him, don't believe he's part of the REAL military, but he shoos me away.
So I go back, only this time from the other entrance, and there are two women who are sweeping inside now. The one closest to me has wild, matted hair. Her eyes are narrowed, hard. The whites of her eyes glow in the gloom. I can't really see the one further ahead, sweeping in the green, dark shadows of the vault. They terrify me. They are not women but I need to go in, and as I pass the one in a narrow corridor, there is a low feline yowl behind me as she passes out of sight.
And I whirl around, and she is not behind me but in one of the side-rooms off the corridor, but staring at me and swaying, and I begin to back away and then hear another yowl from the other one and she is also swaying now, bending, sweeping but not really, pretending to sweep, gripping the broom handle awkwardly, like she doesn't quite know how to hold it.
And I can tell that I need to somehow keep both of them in sight but they are on opposite sides of me and every time I spin they are lower to the ground, hunched, bowing and scraping, moving further away from me each time, as if trying to get to a dark, unseen corner where I cannot see them and the yowling is constant now and getting closer and my heart is racing and I need to go into the vault but I don't want to because they'll take me.
That's when I woke up.