I walk up to a white house planted on the white sands of a private island that is really just a small sandbar off the shore of a larger piece of land. It is so small that only the one story house and a single palm tree can fit to sway in the warm breeze. None the less it is breathtaking. Paradise. I get the feeling that I visit my family who lives here often but this time it is with a certain urgency.
Bright turquoise water surrounds the house but instead of quietly lapping against the crystal sands of this tiny oasis it is creeping up quickly, dangerously. Soon it will tear this house apart. As the waves hit violently against the thin walls of this house we try to get everything we can. We are carrying large pieces of furniture desperately between the waves a short distance to the shore. It is chaotic, the house is crumbling, lives are being ruined and the water is taking everything - even me. I am disappearing with the house into deep turquoise my hands outstretched to the distancing shore.
I remember dreams like this because I feel like they want me to remember them.
