At sixteen, life is wonderful. I'm running through the forest, trying to find a special place. I know it's just past the Orc-like Copse and the Sycamore Woods. I continue to run, barefoot and free, my strawberry blonde hair flowing behind me as I laugh . . . because he'll be there. I turn, dancing through a bend in the road, and then chance upon a tiny stream. It tickles my toes as I trace the water, making dozens of pulsing circles on its surface.
That's when the birds fly away, and I turn. He's arrived.
A man steps from the brush, looking happy and free, like a Greek God. We hold hands and run to the top of some crazy hill that never existed anywhere except in my dreams. Then my best friend from high school and I run and jump. We smile and laugh as the wind hits our faces. Our feet land in soft mud and we skid to the bottom where there's a gorgeous glade.
And the whole time, I can't get over this feeling: having a friend who wants nothing more than to be friends with me forever.
And that's where the dream used to end . . . until my life fell apart when I was seventeen.
There's something strange about running away as a teenager. It can make things worse, maybe even subconsciously. I'm not sure if I should have stayed, with all the rumors and terrible things that happened right before I left Utah. But what I do know is that the dream changed afterward.
I'm sixteen and I'm running
through an ever-darkening forest, trying desperately to find a special place. I know it's just
past the foreboding Orc-like Copse and the spindly Sycamore Woods. I run, barefoot, my matted strawberry hair is practically glued to my greasy forehead. I turn, hurtling through a bend in the road before lurching into a rushing river. It bites my aching feet and it doesn't even ripple when I try washing my hands in it.
That's when the birds fly away, and I turn. But no one
is there. So I sprint parallel to the water . . . alone. I clutch my own hands to keep from shaking and dart to the top of some crazy hill that only taunts me in my dreams. Then I jump off the edge. The wind hits my
face. And when I land, instead of the ground being soft and muddy, it's filled with thorns and rocks. I tumble to the bottom and cry.
You want to know something strange? For the first time in 13 years, I had the first dream again. What could this possibly represent?
I'm so confused. Everyone says we can learn about ourselves by being alone. Maybe I'm learning something new and my dream is trying to show me?