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At seven years old, I had tapped into more memories of previous lifetimes. Fearful of sleeping in my own room, or too sick to sleep elsewhere, I spent that night on the living room couch.
This particular memory, or dream, has occurred twice in my life. Exactly the same way both times.
Unlike the first dream I can remember, this one begins on another planet entirely. It was smaller than earth. A planetary city. It was filled with sky scrapers. It had varying districts. The sky had no color, or maybe it was just a cloudy time in this memory.
You know those partly cloudy days where the sunlight still lights up the world? Not dreary, no rain. Just moderately overcast? Well, on days like that on this world it made the glows of sunlight shine through a filter. Casting everything in a blue light. Much like the glow of a television stuck on a blue screen.
Anyway. Somehow bicycles existed on this city riddled planet. I don’t know if the district I was in had fallen to poverty, or drugs. The marketplace in the local area had little to offer. Next to no food. No medical supplies. Many shop keepers slept through sales hours. It was obvious you needed to be in a desperate state to purchase any thing from the shops. The dirty scarf could have meant the key difference between life and death to some lost soul.
I can’t remember what specifically I was shopping for in that marketplace. I do remember haggling with a shop keeper.
Sirens went off. We all scattered. I rode my bike as hard and as fast as I could to safety. Instead, I lost my bike, and found myself in the middle of a crowd of people. A man with white hair, balding, and in a nice suit was making a public announcement. “Our world is about to end. We have mere days or hours to leave or die.”
The man turned to leave. The people in the crowd began to riot. Alone, I pushed my way through the mob. Unsure of what to do next.
I don’t know what happened between that moment and the explosion. In seconds I watched my desolate world collapse, and explode, as if it were some stone encrusted star.
I sat back, tired, unfeeling.
A beach, Earth. I woke to bright yellow sunlight. A clear blue sky littered with white fluffy clouds. Waves lapped at half my body. A sandy beach going on for an unknown length of time.
“Welcome.” Came a strange voice.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re home. Your people are making a new life for themselves here. Come, I’ll take you to your new house.”
I turned to look where the voice came from. A beautiful black woman walked me down the beach. Past wooden and straw huts tied together with vines and mud.
They sat on the edge. The line where waves met the sand. The floors were raised about five feet off the ground.
Somehow the people of that planet survived.
On occasion I wonder if I’d dreamt of the beginnings of Atlantis. Or maybe those people integrated into a local culture.
Since this is a chronicle, and I am aware that this is not so much a nightmare. Unless you fear some kind of existential crisis. Either of yourself or on a global scale. I have chosen to recount these dreams in chronological order as best I can remember. While this dream is not all that daunting, it did strike my young mind as something that needed remembering.
The world that collapsed was over industrialized. If you are a whovian, or a fan of Doctor Who, then you might picture this world much like that of “New Earth’s” underground of “New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New York.” During the time when people on that currently fictional planet lived in their cars and food was their own recycled waste, among other mildly grotesque futuristic means of feeding the public on a planet barren of food.
Perhaps this dream is a warning of the imminent climate change. Perhaps it was simply the bored subconscious of a sick seven-year-old.
Perhaps a planetary collapse did occur, and another Earth exists out there. Maybe in this lifetime the descendants of that planet will meet with us. Maybe they mingle with us already.
Maybe we will never know.