It only happens when I forget that I ever dreamed it. It could possibly be a coincidence of some sort, maybe it is an allusion to a tragic pattern, like my subconscious trying to remind me of something I cannot place, or it could be a cryptic vision, though I suppose I am mistaken to believe I am significant enough to receive that.

I am never sure, but it is always fuzzy. Escaping me before I can recount it in its entirety. It is frightening in hindsight yet agonizingly beautiful in the moment, though I could be making it all up in my mind. Y'know, as people do when they want something to be more than it is. Maybe. But, it always ends too quickly. Too quickly.

It all begins like this:

In a distant valley, viewing the night, lights appear altogether, revealing themselves like a few thousand buoys in the middle of a deep, dark ocean. Almost as paint dripping in a perfectly straight path, they roll together, smearing across each end of the horizon; and even I, in my hazy state, can distinguish them. Stars.

I am stuck, at the same point, staring up at them, hoping that something will change. But I look around, and nothing happens, though I do not know what I wish was different. I don't know if it involves the stars.

And it all turns and revolves, even if it is always night, and It's almost like I can see my reflection among them. They are unchanged. Timeless. Honest. And I look to these stars ever-lasting, where the sun cannot rise and the clouds will not go, and I know everyone, everywhere is looking at the same light whether they realize it or not. For heaven's sake, they're stars.

And I can feel every single person gazing back, almost as if these white points are eyes perceiving me from a million — no, an incomprehensible distance away, and I want to ask if they realize I'm even there or not. Could they notice me? Could they even speak, past the stars?

And after I'm there pondering the exact same questions I will never answer, after I've notice that everyone sees the same sky, after I've wondered if they can see me, I finally find what else is here, even though I've seen it just under a hundred times. **The Tree**.

Spiraling from the cold earth, which was veiled in the same darkness as the sky, **The Tree** stretches overhead, just catching the dim red hues of a sideways sun. Though it has branches and a trunk, it is made up of crimson fibers that wriggle and ache with each breath of my own. To each breath of everyone. All people are bound to **The Tree**.

And it captures them, like suspenseful music captures your breath, and it pierces the sky above me. And I am afraid. I am helpless. And I don't know what any of this is supposed to mean.

I don't think I want to remember this anymore. Yes, we can talk about my other dreams, but I just don't want to speak about this one.