I'm feeling better this morning. Not 100% up to par--I didn't sleep well last night, but I did have a dream:
I was in the new library. Which was interesting, because it seemed like it had been an old church at one point. In the middle of the foyer was an atrium of sorts, with a really old tree growing out of the ground.
Evidently, there had been a house on the site at one point, or else they had integrated the house in with the church to create the new library. Well, right past the tree was a row of bushes and a window, and there was a piece of history attached to the site that had something to do with “my” family. (I wasn’t myself in this dream.) Evidently, a long time ago there was a murder or something at the house.
I’m not sure who I was with, but I was there with two people, and it was dark. I’m not sure if we broke in, or had permission to hunt around for artifacts. But anyway, we scrounged around in the dirt and I found an old, rusted pistol. It was rusted, but still recognizable. And it had blue markings. (The handle part. Whatever that’s called.)
“I bet this is the gun,” I said. “I can see it-- _________ shot __________ while he was sitting on the couch and gently lowered the gun out the window and it was never found.”
“You would have thought they would have found it if he dropped it in the bushes,” one of my companions said.
I shrugged. “Let’s see what else we can find.”
So we dug deeper, and I “heard” an interesting story. (It was more like as we dug the story became known to me.) Evidently, there was a child involved, a child with my name (my name was Jennifer in the dream, but I wasn’t me) who was born about six months before me. And she vanished, and I was somehow put in her place.
An interracial child, one of my companions said.
We uncovered a slab of marble that had a rough-cut picture of an angel on it, and a name that escapes me now. We also unearthed a broken headstone, but I can’t remember what it said either.
I dug deeper. And finally, about three feet down, I uncovered the lid of a wax-covered cardboard box. Inside the box were three things: two broken porcelain dolls, and a cloth doll made of black cloth and dressed in bright colored ribbons.
The dolls were antiques, and each one had unusual marks—I showed my companions how to find the maker’s mark, etc. Each doll’s left ear and part of its face had been broken. Otherwise, they were intact.
The first doll has matted curly hair and almost a Bru face, but it was larger than the usual Brus with an open mouth, open eyes, and teeth. The second was a “baby” doll, and I think it was either blond or had no hair. This doll had writing on the inside of its broken head, like marks from the person who made it.
We also found a second gun, this one even more rusted than before.
Before we could explore the box further or dig deeper to where I thought the other Jennifer’s grave would be, we heard someone coming.
So we hid, and I readied the rusted pistol, intending to defend our site if necessary. Somehow, the scene had morphed to a shadowy living room (don’t ask me how) and I hid between a sheet-covered dining room table and a sheet-covered couch. It was almost as if we were in a storage room now. My companions hid in other places.
A skinny, dark haired man slipped into the room and went directly to where we had dug the hole. I think he picked up one of the dolls, and I was about to stand and confront him when I woke up.
Of course.
Any takers on interpretation?
I was in the new library. Which was interesting, because it seemed like it had been an old church at one point. In the middle of the foyer was an atrium of sorts, with a really old tree growing out of the ground.
Evidently, there had been a house on the site at one point, or else they had integrated the house in with the church to create the new library. Well, right past the tree was a row of bushes and a window, and there was a piece of history attached to the site that had something to do with “my” family. (I wasn’t myself in this dream.) Evidently, a long time ago there was a murder or something at the house.
I’m not sure who I was with, but I was there with two people, and it was dark. I’m not sure if we broke in, or had permission to hunt around for artifacts. But anyway, we scrounged around in the dirt and I found an old, rusted pistol. It was rusted, but still recognizable. And it had blue markings. (The handle part. Whatever that’s called.)
“I bet this is the gun,” I said. “I can see it-- _________ shot __________ while he was sitting on the couch and gently lowered the gun out the window and it was never found.”
“You would have thought they would have found it if he dropped it in the bushes,” one of my companions said.
I shrugged. “Let’s see what else we can find.”
So we dug deeper, and I “heard” an interesting story. (It was more like as we dug the story became known to me.) Evidently, there was a child involved, a child with my name (my name was Jennifer in the dream, but I wasn’t me) who was born about six months before me. And she vanished, and I was somehow put in her place.
An interracial child, one of my companions said.
We uncovered a slab of marble that had a rough-cut picture of an angel on it, and a name that escapes me now. We also unearthed a broken headstone, but I can’t remember what it said either.
I dug deeper. And finally, about three feet down, I uncovered the lid of a wax-covered cardboard box. Inside the box were three things: two broken porcelain dolls, and a cloth doll made of black cloth and dressed in bright colored ribbons.
The dolls were antiques, and each one had unusual marks—I showed my companions how to find the maker’s mark, etc. Each doll’s left ear and part of its face had been broken. Otherwise, they were intact.
The first doll has matted curly hair and almost a Bru face, but it was larger than the usual Brus with an open mouth, open eyes, and teeth. The second was a “baby” doll, and I think it was either blond or had no hair. This doll had writing on the inside of its broken head, like marks from the person who made it.
We also found a second gun, this one even more rusted than before.
Before we could explore the box further or dig deeper to where I thought the other Jennifer’s grave would be, we heard someone coming.
So we hid, and I readied the rusted pistol, intending to defend our site if necessary. Somehow, the scene had morphed to a shadowy living room (don’t ask me how) and I hid between a sheet-covered dining room table and a sheet-covered couch. It was almost as if we were in a storage room now. My companions hid in other places.
A skinny, dark haired man slipped into the room and went directly to where we had dug the hole. I think he picked up one of the dolls, and I was about to stand and confront him when I woke up.
Of course.
Any takers on interpretation?
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