I dreamed I was missing. It felt real. Part of it blurred into reality. Unlike the dreams I had before, I remember it very clearly. Also unlike my other dreams, this one didn't feel like it was mine. Rather, it felt like it was given to me by a higher power. It was someone else's dream shaped by me. I still don't know its effects. Its effects are still unraveling.

Some of my friends and family were very worried about me. I appreciate them. Some of my friends didn't know what was going on but they offered their support. Most of my friends have their own lives and it didn't matter much to them. Stories easily get lost in today's world. People neither have the time to tell them nor listen to them. Apparently, the only stories worth telling or listening to are ones on a big screen. Capitalism gave us a lot of things. Yet, along the way we lost something primal—the ability to just sit around a campfire and tell stories. Or read them out loud to each other. How do we get it back? How do we have the best of both worlds?

Maybe that's what the dream was supposed to help me find. I still don't know the dream's purpose but something tells me it will come to me with time. I learn something new about it every day. That's all I can say.