I lived two lives. One, before the Big Catastrophe, and one after.
In my first life, I would have this strange vivid dreams. They appeared as they would be some kind of answers or clues to my ever-hovering unconscious question looming in the static like some kind of flash of electricity into the rainy night- about my origins. To questions about who I really am, and what is my purpose on this absurd and terrifying place.
I sought to remember what was lost, erased from my memories. What remained, were mere feelings. They were my keys opening rooms in my mind. People, happenings, number of years were swept with one enormous hand that wasn't God's, just like someone sweeps flour from the kitchen table.
It's 2015's end of October and I had one of those dreams again. I am in the war of Afghanistan or Iraq. I'm a reporter or a journalist. I'm going on the usual way, to the city. I hear gunshots and people running. I want to run back, but my way is barricaded. There is a man with a large car like a van. The one you go through the desert with. He sees me, opens the door and I jump in. He has a turban. I know he is a good man because he's saving my life. We're trying to hide in his car from the bullets. We're driving off. He knows that I'm there to help. He shouts to me: tell them you're an independent, tell them you're an independent! But I'm too afraid to get out if his car, because they will shoot me. I just stay with him, the last person I see.
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