Up until last night, apparently I was just so completely exhausted that I don’t remember dreaming at all. I don’t mind that.
Yesterday afternoon, when Joe got back to our hotel room, he brought a file box full of things he’d found in our guest room in the closet. Obviously I missed it when I was trying to get all of the personal papers out of there. So I went through it last night and had a shredder party. One of the things in the box was a paper I’d written about Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, and it was a fine paper, too, I might add. (Pride compels me to admit that if I were writing that paper today, it would be much better.)
So in my dreams I was back at university, and there was a fire. No one believed me when I was trying to get people out of the building, and the exterior of the building looked just fine. Nonetheless, there was a fire. And it destroyed a lot of things.
As I recount the dream, it sounds so, I don’t know, banal? But the dreaming was terrifying. Not fun. Not fun one little bit.