I didn’t want to publish this entry. I didn’t even want to write it. But today I feel compelled.
During Covid I had two unusually vivid dreams.
Dream 1 (or rather, nightmare one):
Characters: my dad, my daughter as a toddler, myself — and a lot of strangers.
Setting: a city. Spain, perhaps. Madrid.
People were running from something. We seemed to be running toward it. My mother was missing and we were trying to reach her.
Then everything changed. My hair stood on end. The air shifted. Dad and I exchanged that look — the one that needs no explanation. He grabbed us and pushed us under a bridge beneath a building, covering us with his arms as best he could.
From there I saw it: a blast of light unlike anything I had ever seen, followed by the mushroom of fire and smoke. Hell opening in the sky.
That was the first time I lived through a nuclear explosion — even if only in a dream, though I was a child during the Cold War!
Dream 2 (nightmare two):
Characters: me, and a group of small children. I was their nanny, responsible for them.
Setting: the flat where I grew up on the outskirts of Madrid. It had a full wall of windows facing the street.
A sudden warning came through our phones, TVs, radios. A nuclear missile had been launched and was heading for us. The authorities explained in rushed voices how to protect ourselves in the few minutes we had left.
Their instruction? Sit calmly in front of the windows.
I woke up just before impact, heart in my throat, realizing they had given the worst possible advice. Not that there is much anyone can do when a nuke is on its way.
At the time I found it peculiar that I would dream of nuclear war during a pandemic. Now I don't know what to think.
Whether those nightmares were a sign of stress or a premonition, I refuse to stop paying attention.
I leave you with a picture I made with Leo’s help — who, to my surprise, obliged.
Stay safe. And stay awake.
No comments:
Post a Comment