“My Rapture: a dream”, written by Nathan L. Moon
I started having this dream sporadically for two years:
I am sitting in my English class listening to my professor.
I can’t hear him. Whatever he says is muffled, and my classmates are blurred
out, but they’re obviously monotonously copying what he says into their
notebooks. But I know what he is saying doesn’t matter because I have an
unexplainable knowledge and assurance that, ultimately, I don’t need it and
will not need it.
I look out the tall window, and through the blinds I can see
cars in the lot on fire, papers rolling like tumble weeds across the campus
grounds.
Suddenly sound returns and there are explosions, gunshots.
My classmates jump to their feet and shriek, running for the door.
Before I know it I’m outside, running to my car. The only
thought in my mind is, “I have to get home. I hope everyone’s okay.”
I arrive home. I run inside, looking for my parents but
they’re gone. My siblings are down in the basement—Zachary, Lucas, Maximus,
Bryana. I gather them and we leave for my girlfriend’s house, hoping she’s
okay, that I can reach her in time.
To my joy she is unscathed, but a little confused. All I can
think to say is, “We must get to my dad’s house. My grandparents will be there
and everything. We’ll all be safe.” When I am asked where mommy is I have the feeling in my stomach that either mommy is fine, or she ... won’t be coming … I want so
bad to wake up but I am unable to. I don't like saying that.
I’m belted in, heading north,
going up to see my family. I look
around and all I feel is incredible, overwhelming love. I can’t describe the
comfort, but I know it’s not a product of the moving, aluminum vehicle, and I
know it’s not my companions; it’s something more, and I can sense that those in
the car with me feel it too. I don’t turn back; I just drive.
Very interesting not only to read but just how dreams, simple little things our minds do when they are relaxed can do things to us and stir up such emotion in us. I've had them to that to me before.
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