Under the Bridge
I typically play myself in my dreams; but during last night’s dream, I looked in a mirror and saw not my face, but that of a dolled-up woman, which resembled an upside-down pentagon. In my dream-induced stupidity, I reckoned that my facial structure was simply changing.
The scene changed: I was reclining in the back of a golf cart being driven across rolling hills, while the person in the passenger seat held a tray of sandwiches down to prevent it from falling out of the vehicle.
Thereafter I was a passenger in a car, with a group of people whom I did not recognise; we were driving across a bridge over a purple ocean. Said bridge collapsed, whereupon a man’s voice narrated something along the lines of, “They [‘me’ and my ‘family’] survived, but had a problem: they had no idea where one another was.”
I sunk into the water, which had turned blue. “Drowning” in a dream is a peculiar experience; you feel the confusion and panic of being trapped underwater without the physical sensations of fluid filling your lungs or of water pressing from all sides against your body. A man in a wetsuit and snorkel appeared in front of me, and the dream ended.
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