I was on my way to Chicago. I actually thought I was in Chicago, but I wasn't. Then I thought I was in Arizona, but I wasn't. I was in Richardson, or so the dream goes (or so goes my memory actually). The point is not where, it's what.
I saw the ocean. It was beautiful. I visited the beach at night. The waves were nearly violent. But it was a scene of beautiful violence. There was light from the horizon, a very faint light, though it was definitely after dusk. I remember thinking that I couldn't believe the view.
I was on one side of the beach walking on what was nearly smooth sand. As I walked to the other side of the beach, facing the horizon, my feet begin to tingle with a burning sensation. The burn is not like fire, though uncomfortable. I can't see why I can't stand this area of the beach, but I tolerate the pain for a few more minutes before returning to the other side. Before moving though, I catch a glimpse of something in the sky. It's a beautiful night sky; the kind always romanticized in film. There before me is an object falling from the sky. It appears to be attached to some sort of parachute that it detaches from near the surface of the water. At first I am just in awe, then I notice what they are: jellyfish. I watch three of them float from the sky and land safely in the water as I make my way around the beach. I wonder if it is the jellyfish that made my feet burn, though I know it wasn't. I seem to know then that it was the glass from millions of bottles thrown down in a drunken rage by someone before my time. But it doesn't matter.
I find my way to the safe side of the beach. All I can think of is how near the beach those floating parachutists came. All I can feel is the breeze around me. All I want is to stay there. And then I do what I always do, I run. I run away from what I want. I run into the city.
