I died and I was buried.
Except I was not dead. I woke up in the sarcophagus, in a mausoleum. It had been sealed from the outside. I had seen the funeral that Saumya and others held; I saw the offerings that they made. I knew they were outside, and they knew I was within.
I believe they knew I was not dead. But there I was.
I opened the sarcophagus and stepped down into the mausoleum. It was large and roomy. I didn’t mind being there. I didn’t feel trapped or lost, but I was unsure where to go.
I walked its little hall. Tall stone walls, with tiny windows at the top. For fun and to scare the people outside, I pounded on these windows. I knew they would not open the door for me, and I didn’t want them to.
I walked to the end of the mausoleum. I’m not sure what I found.
I don’t attach psychic or prophetic significance to dreams. This one woke me up and remains clear in my mind. It feels important, whether it is or not.
Want to hazard an interpretation?
I’m writing my first novella. The end of summer, a failing crop, the desperate touch of temporary lovers—and magic. Lúnasa Days.