I dreamt that I set my parents’ house on fire. I don’t remember how the fire had started exactly, but I couldn’t put it out. It was in the trees, spreading from one planter to the next. I was running around the house, dealing with each of the flare ups.
Eventually the fires gained the attention of my dad. He asked me what was going on. I couldn’t explain myself. I didn’t know what had started them, and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t put them out.
My dad hopped up on the fence and pulled down the window of a nearby house. He stepped on the window like it was a drawbridge to a secret armory. He pulled a piece of electrical equipment out of the house. The piece of equipment was some sort of thermal imaging machine. It displayed the location of all of the fires.
We had just started making our way to one of the fires when I woke up. It was a difficult transition. This dream had taken place deep within my subconscious. The weight of it left me feeling very groggy, and another surveilled six hour empty shop sentence was nothing to look forward to. I wanted to go back home, to my dad. I wanted him to take care of things for me. I wanted him to be the one who goes to work, not me.