Just before I woke up, I dreamt that some members of my family and I were at a lake. Around the lake was a campground/small-community. We toured a section of the lake on foot, but by the time we wanted to go back, a great distance separated us from where we needed to be. Rather than walk back, we struck upon the idea of flying. I don’t remember how we came up with our method, exactly, but each one of us picked up a pigeon and held it gently between our two hands in front of us. My pigeon was white and shabby and smelled a little gross, like you would expect a pigeon too. Holding these birds enabled us to fly - with some effort on our own part - across the lake, bit by bit. We sort of went from outcropping and island across it.
At one point, I decided I could make it the rest of the way on my own, and I let the pigeon go. It didn’t take to flight like I was expecting. In fact, it didn’t move at all. It just fell quickly downward as though dead, and landed in the water. I was upset to see this, and I was also getting worried now as I began to realize that my power of flight had come from the bird and not myself. I tried once more to take to the air without the aid of the pigeon, but suddenly could not “remember” how I had done this mere moments before. Luckily, I discovered there was a land-bridge the rest of the way to the other side of the lake, and took it, but was still a little sad over that pigeon having died.
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