I had a dream early this morning, long before dawn.
I was standing on a highway overpass, overlooking a city’s downtown on a gray and still day. Somehow, I knew this city was in Central New York, where I had spent my journalism years, but something was different. I was confused.
I had planned to walk into town, but I was overwhelmed with apprehension, a sense that I should remain on that overpass. So I did, and in that moment, the first building began to fall. It had been leaning slightly already, but the pressure was too great. It crumbled and crashed into the next building, which also collapsed.
The weight of the rubble broke a nearby dam and the highway below me became an instant river, turbulent and wide. I saw no one — no people fighting the current, no vehicles floating downstream, no bodies anywhere. I heard nothing — no crash of concrete and steel, no rushing water, no screams.
My decision had isolated and insulated me.
I was alone on the overpass, safe and alive and terrified.