Most of my dreams are stupid.

Once, I had a dream where the camera panned out to a third-person view, and I watched myself swing over a creek on a long vine, as if I were watching a movie about me. In another dream, I got into a car accident and was left upside down, staring blankly at the asphalt, shattered glass all around. That one stuck with me. It didn’t feel like my mind was inventing something. It felt like I was living something.

It’s hard to explain how dreams can feel different. Sometimes, I can sense my brain actively constructing a world — like Inception. Other times, I feel like a passenger, just experiencing whatever’s in front of me. I can’t explain the mechanics, but I know the difference when it happens. I’ve convinced myself that those “passenger” dreams are glimpses into alternate universes. I don’t know when or why I started believing that, but it helps me make sense of the strange, vivid places I go when I sleep.

A Dream That Stayed With Me

The one I remember most clearly took place in a bland cityscape — forgettable, but somehow it reminded me of Biloxi, Mississippi at night. That might be because the dream begins with me turning a corner in a car, which mirrors a real-life near-accident I once had in Biloxi. (I was both a careless and lucky driver in the early 2010s.)

In the dream, I was picking up my friends, Myron and Bert. True to form, Bert made me the butt of a few jokes before they both got in the car. We started driving and chatting, though I don’t remember what about. We never arrived at our destination — not because anything happened, but because I woke up.

The biggest difference between this dream and my real life was Bert. He died in 2015. In this universe, maybe he survived his heart attack. Or maybe the dream took place before it happened. It’s not like I had a newspaper with a date to check. But in that world, he was still alive. Still laughing. Still riding shotgun.

When Memories Blend and Reappear

Bert and Myron weren’t friends in real life — they just knew each other through me. Bert didn’t think much of Myron, honestly. When my first girlfriend broke up with me, Bert even suggested that Myron might’ve had something to do with it. (He didn’t. She left me for someone else because I wasn’t a good boyfriend.)

Still, in a world where Bert lived longer, I imagine we would have all hung out more eventually. Maybe we were headed to a UFC fight at Hudson Grille or a strip club — the typical late-night Atlanta options where streetlights are the only things still awake.

I miss Bert. Not just because I lost a friend, though that’s true. I miss him more because he had a son shortly before he passed. I wish his son could’ve grown up with his father in his life. His mother has done an incredible job raising him, and I’m proud of the environment she’s built for such a smart, active kid.

But still — just because someone can do something alone doesn’t mean they should have to. I often wonder how different things could have been. Not just for Bert and me, but for the family he never got the chance to raise.

On Fading Faces and Familiar Voices

What made that dream so moving was how vividly I could see Bert again. Hear his voice. As I get older, I’ve realized how faces and voices fade. I remember my parents’ features through photos or flashes of memory — my mom laughing in my grandma’s house. I remember their voices only through a few memorable quotes.

I don’t dream about my parents often, probably because I can’t recreate them in my head as easily anymore. But Bert? He’s still fresh in my memory — still full of movement and sound. And so, in this dream, in this alternate universe, he was fully alive. A real presence. A version of him still raising the son he always wanted.

On Deja Vu, Dreams, and Other Realities

I believe our brains are powerful beyond what we fully understand. I get that dreams help process unresolved emotions, but sometimes I think they’re more than that. I’ve had dreams — just a few seconds long — that later turned into real-life moments. The first I remember was watching Full House on an old black-and-white TV, Stephanie Tanner running down the stairs. Weeks later, I lived that exact moment. I told my dad, and he didn’t treat me like I was crazy. That felt good.

Sure, I wish my brain would show me the winning Powerball numbers instead of what I’m ordering for lunch. But still — if it can predict things, even briefly, why not give me a glimpse into another version of me? Why not show me a window into another timeline?

Do I really believe in alternate universes? I don’t know. But I do know this: with billions of people in existence, it seems just as likely that some are iterations of others — recycled souls, rerun lives, alternate paths branching off every big decision.

A Lesson I Teach and Try to Live

Sometimes, as an ESL teacher, I run a class where students imagine a life where one past decision was different. It ties into a grammar lesson on third conditional sentences, but it often turns into something deeper. Some students find it fun. Others get lost in the possibilities. For some, it’s painful. For others, comforting.

For me, dreams like this are a gift — but they’re also a reminder.

Grounded in Reality

In reality, Bert is gone.
In reality, I can support his son and widow.
In reality, I can show up more for my friends, knowing none of us is promised a long future.
In reality, I need to take better care of myself — to reduce the chances of a heart attack, or worse.

Maybe another version of me made different choices. Maybe he’s living in another branch of time. But I’m not him. I’m here. This is my life. And while I may never live in those alternate worlds, I can honor them. I can take what I see in my dreams and let it shape what I do when I’m awake.