Dream – October 28, 2015
I also had a dream today that I moved into an apartment—first of all, it was huge, and part of its floor was slightly higher than the rest. Second, the layout of the apartment was very interesting; it was already furnished, although the furniture was arranged strangely. But it could be rearranged. Yet the main thing about this apartment wasn’t even its size—it was the view! It was on a fairly high floor, and from the windows, there was a view of an endless beautiful sunset! It was breathtaking!
However, there was something strange about this apartment. It had several (specifically, four) entrance doors leading from two different hallways. None of these doors had any bolts, but it was clear that different people had keys to different doors, and I kept seeing people coming in, acting like they were at home, just hanging around in my apartment! It was unbelievably rude, especially considering that I kept telling them all to leave, that this was my home! But no sooner would I try to chase out one group (they came in groups) than another would show up.
They were gathering in my apartment, and I kept shouting, “Get out, all of you!” They either completely ignored me or answered, “We’re not leaving!”—and kept partying. Pure insolence, if you ask me.
I called some repairman to install bolts on all the doors, and to put a brand-new lock on the main door—because enough is enough.
By the way, the night view was also stunning.
Dream – November 13, 2015
At first, I needed to rent a room. Somehow, I quickly found one and arranged it nicely—there was a bed here, a floor lamp of a strange design there, and a TV somewhere over there. Now I had to think about where to place a cutting table and where to sit with a sewing machine, but honestly, there wasn’t much space, not even for a computer desk. Well, hopefully, this is just temporary.
I left the room to check out the rest of the apartment: the hallway, the rooms. At first, it seemed similar to our old Moscow apartment where I lived with my parents. Oh, no, not quite—it wasn’t it. White paint on the walls, lots and lots of light. It felt like I was in another city. But which one?
Someone approached me with rental papers. I asked if I could rent month-to-month, and they pointed out strange conditions—not month-to-month, but by two-month increments. That is, the lease would last two months at a time. Fine, I thought.
Then the owner of the apartment appeared. She knelt in front of me, with some man nearby. I was holding a gun. I shot her in the head. Once, twice. I was good at it. Her forehead remained intact. And she did too. I fired several more times. At some point, she fell down, pretending to be dead. But then she got back up, and this performance repeated several times.
Afterward, she stood up, and we went to discuss terms. It turned out I would only be given the apartment under the condition that I stage her death.
“And then,” she said, “I’ll mysteriously reappear, and it’ll turn out I wasn’t dead!”
I asked her—”Do you promise?”
“Yes,” she said, turning toward a sunset over the ocean (we were on a beach).
I asked her to write on paper that it would be a staged murder and that I had not killed anyone. She refused.
I said then there would be no deal.
“That’s fine, darling,” she said, “I have many butterflies who will agree to these terms.”
“And I,” I replied, “have plenty of room offers!”
We parted ways. But time moved forward, and it turned out she really had been killed—and also that she had committed some kind of crime. She was now being hunted. Someone found out about my connection to this case. They couldn’t exactly accuse me, but they could question me, chase me, even capture me.
First, a whole crowd arrived—journalists and, I think, some law enforcement officials. I didn’t have time to escape. I sat at a wooden table outside, lowering my head and covering it with my hands so no one could photograph my face. I was wearing jeans and a checkered shirt. I heard voices:
“Natasha, do you know that if you cover your head with two hands, it means there were two conspirators?”
I laughed.
They kept saying things to me. I encouragingly gave them a thumbs-up with both hands, and they backed off. I decided to slip away quietly. I walked calmly, pretending it wasn’t me, into a building to try and disappear.
A group of people passed by—I knew they were part of the pursuers. One man started suspecting who I was and said to me in Russian, “Hey there!” I answered, also in Russian, “Hi!”—and immediately realized it was a mistake because obviously we weren’t in Russia, and I had just given myself away.
He said something to someone, and a big group started chasing me. I ran into the building—it seemed like a school or university, completely empty. For some reason, a long down comforter was dragging behind me. I threw it off and dashed to one of the doors in the long hallway. I grabbed the handle at random and ended up in a room, but the chase was right behind me.
I ran to the window, jumped out, and found myself in a small alley.
Honestly, it was beautiful—low beige-painted houses, a bright blue sky above. It looked a lot like Europe.
I started running for my life, and oddly enough, I was running fast and didn’t even get tired—I was proud of myself. Moving from alley to alley, I found myself at a small market. It suddenly struck me that I might be in Morocco…
I decided to throw my pursuers off. I ran to look for clothing stalls, found a rather gloomy passageway with a rack of galabiyas. I picked one in a pleasant gray-blue color and asked how much it was. It cost 25 in local currency. I asked how much that was in dollars. Two dark-haired vendors said, “Also 25.” I only had euros. I gave them the money, they started taking the dress off the rack, but I snatched it from them and dashed into a door that conveniently led to a restroom.
I took off my shirt, pulled the dress over my head, and started taking off my jeans when I noticed—there was a man in the restroom, doing his business. The room was tiny—there was hardly enough space for two people. I screamed for him not to turn around, but he did anyway and started making crude jokes. I quickly pulled off my jeans and ran out of the bathroom.
After that, I walked calmly again, as if nothing had happened, thinking that it would be a good idea to buy a scarf to cover my hair completely, just in case.
Honestly, the chase excited me a lot. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and strangely enough, I secretly wanted to get caught, but I understood I couldn’t let it happen. I went into some building entrance, called an elevator, without any plan of what I’d do once inside.
A group of pursuers—mostly police, both uniformed and plainclothes—followed. They didn’t really notice me. Only once, I turned my head slightly to the left, and one of the men looked at me—but thankfully didn’t recognize me. The entrance seemed to be a through-passage, and someone from the group went to check it out.
Meanwhile, the elevator doors opened, a man got out, presumably a tenant. I entered the elevator as if I lived there, pressed the button for the 7th floor—the top floor.
Nothing happened.
I panicked and pressed again. The doors closed, but the elevator didn’t move!
I realized that if the elevator didn’t start moving, the pursuers still in the entrance would figure out I was the one they were after.
At that moment—I woke up, terrified! My heart was pounding, and for a few moments, caught between sleep and wakefulness, I tried to force the dream to continue by willing the elevator to move.
It didn’t.
And then I fully woke up.
Dream – December 30, 2015 – She Could Fly
I started remembering it in the evening, right before falling asleep. To be honest, when I closed my eyes, I wanted to see the continuation of that dream. As I was trying to recall how the dream ended, without even realizing it, I started turning it into a story.
And what came out was the beginning and the middle of a story about a girl named Kilili, who could fly — and, in general, didn’t eat anything. Not because she was particularly spiritual or lived off prana, but simply because that’s how her physiology was. Supernatural. She also never felt cold and always walked barefoot.
The story would have begun like this…
“If, on a bleak evening four days before Christmas, someone had wandered into this gloomy, seldom-visited dead-end in New York, grandly named Stellar, they wouldn’t have believed their eyes. Because they would have seen a fragile girl, quite literally fluttering above the icy asphalt, occasionally brushing the ground with the tiny tips of her toes.
Otherwise, it looked as if a ballerina were performing a high jeté — but instead of landing, she floated for about five meters through the air, then lightly pushed off the ground again and soared once more, as if Earth’s gravity simply didn’t apply to her…
The sight would have been so incredible that any onlooker might not have immediately noticed that the girl was dressed completely out of season. She wore a light silk dress, so close in color to her pale skin that it almost blended with it. Nothing more. Yet it seemed not to bother the airy dancer at all. A blissful smile lit up her face, and with every leap she spread her bare arms like wings and threw her head back, as if basking in some unseen sun…
At the end of the alley, the girl would turn and everything would repeat again. And most likely, no one would ever have known about this astonishing event — if, at the very moment when the mysterious ballerina was flying past the alley’s only heavy iron door, it hadn’t suddenly swung open…
A man appeared on the low doorstep, his head buried in a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. He froze, rooted to the spot, as the half-dressed girl floated past him about a meter and a half off the ground, moving as if in slow motion.
The girl also noticed her accidental observer. She suddenly blushed, clearly not expecting company, lost her focus, clumsily landed on the ground — and let out a soft cry…”
