As a young person, I never gave much thought to dreams.
They simply came and went.
The earliest dream I recall having, at around the age of four, involved my childhood cat smiling waving at me from a multi-coloured hot air balloon as it rose into the clear blue Rocky Mountain sky.
At the time, my cat was still alive and living with me and my tumultuous family in Calgary. As the years slipped by, the cat and I both moved on, but the dream stuck in my memory. The anthropomorphisation of a pet, leaving me behind on earth with a jovial flick of the paw, seemed significant.
Mostly, the dream was just fucking weird and vivid, so I remembered it.
In the years that followed, I gave so little afterthought to my dreams - assuming they were rubbish or mental jibberish, or simply not remembering them due to my high daily intake of cannabis - that I cannot recall another one until early 2013.
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