The Dream Journal of Amanda J. Wilde: Year of My Death

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The Dream Journal of Amanda J. Wilde: Year of My Death


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They come in in threes…

When I was a child I dreamed of my funeral, three nights in a row, each dream more vivid and real than the last. I was there, a spirit hiding behind the honeysuckle, watching the mourners. Too young they said. Only thirty-two.

I turned thirty-two on Christmas.

I have tried to brush it off, label it as a childish fear… but I know better. There is a difference between a nightmare and a premonition. This was no nightmare.

Now, with the clock on premonition dream ticking loudly in my head and the nightmares returning, I worry the end is near. I started this dream journal to help untwist the dangerous symbolism buried deep in my dreams.
Read it if you wish, these might be the last words I ever write.