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Explore a collection of the latest dreams shared by our community. Discover common themes, intriguing narratives, and unique symbolism. From vivid adventures to thought-provoking scenarios, these recent dreams offer a glimpse into the subconscious mind and may even spark insights into your own dream world. Browse the "Latest Dreams" to find inspiration, connect with others, and delve deeper into the fascinating realm of dreams.

Last night I had a dream that I was in a room like a theater auditorium with other people, I know I knew them but don't know who they are. We are all supposed to be sleeping on the floor. There are white tarps/blankets everywhere. I look up to see large brown and black striped spiders coming down from the ceiling. I'm trying to alert everyone but no one hears me. I begin to try and swat the spiders away but they just sway in the air, still coming down. So realistic!

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When I was about six I would have these dreams of getting kidnapped I had about seven of them the they stopped this is the dream I was at church alone the lights where off (this is how all of them started) and my family had forgotten that they had left me there alone well then an old woman came up to me and she looked very nice and she said that she would take me home (that happend in all seven as well) so then she took me to an old house on a hill and I would tell her this is not my home but then she walked me inside and made me sit down and I looked around it was empty but there was a rocking chair and there was a man in it but he would no move and he was reading a newspaper then the women brought out some milk and cookies the cookies had black widows inside of them and the milk was made of spider silk then my dad with the church bus came and saved me and that was all of the dream then I woke up.

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I was traveling through the Middle East, a rare sight of a woman alone with her children. Everywhere we went, small children with large, dark, haunted eyes would watch my son and daughter as they laughed easily, teased each other and tried to talk to one another in Arabic from a small red phrasebook. One day we sat on a hot, dusty, crowded train. As the vista flashed by outside the window, a young boy, close to the same age as my son, sat across from us with his father. He watched quietly, seriously, as my children giggled, poked at one another and pointed out goats, mountains and beautiful rolling dunes awash in browns, soft pinks and ochers. My daughter turned to the boy and spoke a short phrase to him - "Hello; how are you?" - and suddenly he smiled, huge brown eyes lighting up and his face transformed into that of a beautiful and carefree young man. He began to answer when his father, eyes flashing, gave him a sharp reprimand in the universal language that every parent understands, the tone conveying words I understood in a language I could not. The boy cast his eyes downward. I looked at the man and attempted his language. "I'm sorry and it is not my business yet...why is it not alright for our children to speak with one another?" He looked at me and, with a small sigh, said "Our children are not the same." I said, "We are not wealthy people; you have no reason to dislike us." He barked a short laugh and said, "You, wealthy? You have riches. We -" he pointed at his breast, "we have wealth. We have the wealth that comes from true knowledge of our Creator, of our thousands of years of history, of our struggles. Of our losses. Of our families, of our heritage, of our culture. Your children have riches. Riches of the promise of a future. My son has wealth. But the promise of a future...?" He raised his arms heavenward in a fatalistic gesture and slowly turned his head to look out the window of the train. His proud face looked resigned yet strangely at peace. I woke up with tears running down my face.

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