Today the lingering ghost of disturbing dreams and waking drenched in sweat and exhaustion has me walking a slower pace than normal. What was I running from all night? What had me peering back over my shoulder and looking off at the airfield in the distance, climbing a steep grassy slope to a narrow stair with a single metal rail? 

I somehow fell into a row there with other people running away from or toward something. Our pace slowed by growing numbers ascending the stair. At the top of which was a tiny door. More of a window really, too small I thought, for some people to slip through. How would we all fit? And where would this human  caravan lead? Does it matter when you know your life depends on finding a new place to dwell? When the perception is that any consequence is better than the alternative of staying, it doesn’t matter. 

I fit through the window and after, was when I woke, my head pounding with questions, I shuffled safely to the bathroom to fumble in the dark with the Tylenol and water I had left on the counter before going to bed. 

I didn’t think about the potential meaning of this dream until just now. 

Could it be random or am I already trying to reconcile news of a caravan of human beings crossing Mexico on foot to get to the United States?

They don’t get the news from Alexa each day. They don’t understand that nothing will change immediately just because there’s a change in leadership. Change here is slow. Policy and procedure are large and heavy. 

But they don’t need the news. Promises have been made and they have no option but to believe in them. 

My news source is opinionated. Like the rest of the media the words are often filtered, carefully chosen, and slant. I truly don’t think there’s an honest, unbiased source of news left. I don’t think it’s possible. 

The best I can do is solicit news from multiple sources and piece together the truth from all that. Like a patchwork of events, people, and statements. Pulling the verifiable squares together and using the spool of my mind to stitch it until it fits together. But even that is flawed because I’m biased too. 

I say “let them cross”.. and if the whole world decides to move to America we’ll figure it out. But it’s complicated and I don’t profess that I understand all of the moving parts. I’m also not in any position to make any difference and whatever will happen, I dare say, it will not affect me much. But still I dream. 

Still my unconscious mind puts me in the midst of the migration. Sketchy circumstances. Just another body crossing fields and slipping through chain link fences. Why was there an airfield there? Why was there a narrow stair? What’s the significance of the thin pipe handrail or the door that was more of a window? 

Perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions and it’s all nonsense and doesn’t mean anything at all. 

Yesterday I was looking forward to the start of a new week and now I’m just tired, with a headache and no motivation. I stare at myself as I walk on this treadmill, 2.5 miles an hour, and wonder how fast and far the caravan from Honduras walks each day. Their motivation far greater than anything I can conceive of. 

I don’t want to think about that. So selfish. I’m gonna have to quit now. 

More later, 

~Miss SugarCookie