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When I was kid, I’d always have these dreams. The kind that, when you woke up, you were only left with a vague impression of what you’d experienced. Sometimes it was the usual kid dreams: I was flying (a pretty common one actually) or a superhero, the odd nightmare here and there. Those are the ones I remembered.

There were other dreams that didn’t linger long. Sometimes I was someone else, though exactly who always escaped me. I would live events in their lives; watching through their eyes. I get the feeling it was always something important.

Sometimes I’d be flying, but these weren’t like the other flying dreams. I wasn’t flying over land or houses or streets. In these dreams, I was flying over ocean. Glittering clear ocean water; waves crashing against a blurry, gray structure. Sometimes I was flying amid sparkling towers, the kind you saw in science fiction; what buildings of the distant future might look like.

But these dreams would be forgotten as soon as I opened my eyes, and sometimes (on the rare occasion I remembered) I’d tell my mom about them. She would smile and say: It was just a dream, John. Dad had only heard of the dreams once or twice before I figured out he wasn’t interested in hearing them.

Eventually though, the dreams stopped, and I stopped mentioning them altogether. I grew up. Dreams of science fiction towers on an ocean was kids stuff. Ten, fifteen, by the time I was eighteen, I’d forgotten the dreams. College, the Air Force, Iraq, Afghanistan, Antarctica, Pegasus - there were more important things than the forgotten dreams of a child.

It wasn’t until I’d been living in another galaxy for two years that I figured it out.
I’d started to remember the dreams: the ocean, the towers, the flying.

And I found out… they weren’t just dreams.