No one cares about other peoples dreams. I have come to understand that while listening to anyone tell me about their dreams and never being able to listen past the point where their best friend turned into their mom while they walked on top of Everest riding a dinosaur. I think they mean something, and maybe I am just too rude or impatient to care. But I had a dream last night, and based on my previous words here, you have the choice to skip it, pretend to read it, or think about your own dream you may have had recently.

I was walking in a valley, golden in colour and I saw a herd of moose. I saw a dieing cougar. I saw a jackal attacking a gazelle. There was fire, there were dead trees, it was golden in colour. That is it.

I didn’t have the day off today, I am not sure what this province considers as a holiday (no Remembrance Day or Family Day and barely a Thanksgiving) but I guess it doesn’t matter. We had a minute of silence today at school at the request of the seventy year old Nova Scotian man and while I stared at French cartoons ’Preparing for Work’ in my textbook, I thought about my Grandpa (Read here, and here.) I started to think about the old canvas duffel that my Grandpa gave me for graduation, and where it had been, and what it had seen and who had touched it, and how many other duffels were stuffed beside it on massive airplanes crossing the Atlantic, or in army trucks driving across erupting lands. I thought about what my Grandpa had seen in comparison to his duffel, and about his garden, and about saying, ’Not you again!’ every time I walked into his house. He is the only man I know who was a part of all this and I am glad to have someone to think about when the time comes.

I have a hard time rationalizing war at anytime, but my disagreement with it stems from the ideas and motives of the decision makers and not the soldiers. Remembering people is healthy and important and thanking them for things we’ve got and for doing the things they did to give us our daily comforts is necessary. So here is to the people.

My dream meant nothing. It was there for you to sift through what meant something and what didn’t, like you should on a daily basis. There are days that mean something and days that honestly don’t. Most of my days end up meaning very little, and when a day rolls around that actually means something, I try to recognize it, and this is the only way I know how anymore.

I am also thankful.