The Dream of Sand and Silence

There are dreams that slip away like mist… and others that embed themselves, whispering fragments long after you’ve opened your eyes. This one was the latter. A story told in hush and dust, in movements so familiar they felt like memory. I don’t know where it came from—but it hasn’t let go.

Ripples, memories in the sand

I dreamed I was very small again.

Not in this life, but in another—someplace dry, sunlit, and hushed. I was in a tent filled with cushions, thick with the scent of sand and woven fabric. The colors were soft, muted. Everything around me seemed worn by wind and time. A girl was having her long dark hair braided, sitting still while deft hands worked through the strands. It felt like something I had watched many times before. I wasn’t part of it—I was too young. I simply observed. No sound, no emotion, just the repetition of a daily ritual. It felt safe. Familiar.

Then the dream shifted.

I was older now—an adult. A man, I think. I don’t remember the surroundings clearly, but there was one sharp moment: I drove a knife into someone’s side. There was no passion in the act. No anger. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just something I had to do. A job. A duty. Like brushing your teeth or carrying water. I didn’t feel anything about it. It was expected. That was who I was. Then I was supposed to see my death. That was the last part of the dream—what I had been told I would remember. But I didn’t. It didn’t stick. Maybe it wasn’t important. Maybe it was quiet. Or maybe it didn’t matter enough to leave a trace. All I know is that the dream of dying faded before I could touch it.

But then—just as I was waking—something else came through.

A face.

Lips painted red.

And in the mouth, not a tongue, but an eye. It moved. Looked around. As if it could see what I was thinking. And then, a hypodermic needle slid into the eye. Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… deliberately.

Beneath that face, I saw another one—upside down, but otherwise identical. My own reflection, maybe. Or someone I once was. Or still am.

That was the end of it.

And I woke up, but the dream stayed with me.