Date: 19 November 2018
Bed time: 1241hrs
I was in some kind of mall, higher than the first level (could’ve been second or third). I saw an escalator… There was someone who I thought was a friend, another black man. He dressed well, a garb I’d call thug-chic. I remember camouflage patterns, possibly elaborated on by the skills of Rocawear design staff.
I asked him where he purchased his clothes. He tells me, “Sorry bruh, but not here.” He advises me that his clothes weren’t available at this mall or in the states and he drops a subtle hint I couldn’t afford them anyway.
I’m leaving, not taking an escalator or an elevator, but floating to the lower level, exiting the mall.
I’m recalling a familiar scene from another dream I had: a city, a harbor. I remember this place. There is a promenade to my left, stairs leading to this raised walkway overlooking the harbor.
I remember water.
I’m with my family, now—dad, brother, sister, their significant others, girlfriend, cats. We’re in some sort of old mansion. It’s more a castle reformed into some fusion of ancient stone and futurism, what I’d liken to somewhere the rich would dwell to ride out the Apocalypse in comfort.
I’m making some sort of mistake, repeatedly, for which I’m being chastised by my family. I don’t know what this mistake is, but it comes to a head when they all leave, and return a short while later, to find I’ve not only pissed myself, but have apparently pissed all over the mansion. I remember peeing. I remember not being able to control it.
My family chastises me, and I’m insisting I didn’t do it on purpose, because someone sane doesn’t just piss everywhere on purpose. They get sick of me and eventually invite a psychologist to stay with us.
The psychologist is an older white man, gray of hair, some white here and there. He’s wearing a black shirt, long-sleeved, and clean blue jeans. He sort of reminds me of Steve Jobs and George R.R. Martin forming some kind of symbiotic union with one another. He immediately empathizes with me, explaining to my family that me pissing myself, and everywhere else, really was an accident, and that he can figure out what caused it.
We’re alone, now. I’m either in the kitchen or in some sort of day room. The windows are huge, like bay windows, but much bigger. There’s a lake outside. It’s getting dark, storm clouds pregnant with torrents of rain above me. And rain it does. There’s lightning, thunder. Then there is what appears to be a Buddhist monk—though I’m thinking to myself, that can’t really be a Buddhist monk. There’s rock peeking just above the surface of the lake. He’s standing on the rock with one foot, the other raised to his inner thigh in some balancing pose, like he’s practicing Yoga.
The apparent monk is calling a tornado, which dives into the lake. A waterspout forms and starts coming towards the house.
I’m beginning to panic. I’m running to find the psychologist when I’m suddenly pushed to the ground by a deluge of water that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. It almost reminds me of a less severe microburst. The house is filling with it. I can’t swim. I’m screaming for the psychologist, and he’s there, telling me what’s happening. He whispers something unintelligible to me, and somehow, we push the water out of the house.
As the water recedes, I awake.
Feeling upon waking: Confusion laced with a little fear and uncertainty.
What I do upon waking: Put on a shirt, listening to what sounds like scratches at the kitchen window. I walk to the living room, check the locks, and devour a chocolate bar. Finally, I indulge in chain smoking.