I almost never dream, so I was somewhat shocked to wake up this morning and realize that I had. Unfortunately, it wasn't a bright, cheerful dream. It was a nightmare of sorts, actually. There were no monsters chasing me (unless you count pre-schoolers) or trees trying to eat me. I don't even remember all of it. I just know that I had missed my flight to London. In some ways, I was fine with it, I recall, because I hadn't even finished packing. I kept thinking, "I forgot all my sweaters at home!" and going home to find them. Apparently, I lived close to the airport, because this happened more than once. I also remember becoming teary at the thought of paying another hundred dollars to change my ticket date
again. (I'll have to do it once in real life, which is bad enough.) The only other thing I can recall is that there were pre-schoolers at my house, which I don't understand at all. My sister, who has a one-year-old, wasn't even there. Odd...
I guess my subconcious is getting as anxious as I am. I'm researching London a bit now, and all these negative possibilities pop into my head. Most involve faith, depression, and money. I know everything will be resolved in time, but, man, I hope it's sooner than later.
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