In the beginning of the dream, I found myself running in complete blackness. I could hear the wind, feel my feet on the ground, but see absolutely nothing. It was the kind of blackness one can only experience in a dark room, as I did often in high school, breathing the acidic air and struggling to transfer film from the spool into a developing tank. Even in rural areas, the moon and stars shone brightly and revealed vague contours or the glimmering of dew on blades of grass, but here, there was nothing. And what could I do but keep running? There was nothing else to do.
I realized this wasn’t a dream caused by the misfiring of neurons in the night as I woke, yelling frantically for my husband from the shadowy, empty bedroom. But I knew too well that just as with those rare, God sent dreams of my past, the message would completely elude me. That the mystery of it would be accompanied by fear and bewilderment, by restiveness and anxiety.
But what can I do but keep running?