Tuesday morning

I have a recurring dream. It's a dream that is more like a feeling than an actual narrative. It's a dream that perhaps I've lived before, sometime in high school and now I remember it some nights, or maybe I really made it up, I have no idea. I rather think though that it's a day I will live to see sometime, maybe a long time from now. I wonder if when I finally live the day that I've dreamt so many times, it I will die shortly after. Am I remembering the day the I will die, or is it just the melange of so many other memories and dreams, sliced together into one impressionistic morning.

It's Tuesday morning. It is cold and raining outside, but I am inside, dressed warmly. I am not where I'm supposed to be, maybe I was supposed to be a t work, or at school, but instead, I am in an art gallery or a large open space with white walls. I have a packet of cigarettes in my pocket and the day is mine, to explore when the rain stops.

See? It's not so much a narrative as a feeling. I'm not crazy, I swear.