I gave up understanding my dreams long ago. Just when I think certain dreamscapes have reproducible geologic features, those features are upended: I made it back to the canyon, a place for decades defined by its remoteness, but this time I found a sports rental outlet, a Starbucks, and fast food. And just when I think my dream self follows certain rules, those rules are broken.
You see, I can’t punch people in my dreams. Whenever I try so much as a self-defensive kick, I become floppy, ineffectual. A toddler could overpower me. But not the other night: I was a gladiator participating in a team melee. Fighters on the other team weren’t taking me seriously — I had no armor, no weapon, and I was, well, me-sized. But then one of my opponents got body-slammed and his little dagger went flying. I dove for it, got it, and still no one paid attention to me.
Whereupon I killed at least four people (that I can remember) by knifing each one in the carotid.
This dream-me was most definitely not toddler-safe.