Echoes Of The Future
I do not believe we fully comprehend the immense capabilities of human perception. For as long as I can remember, I have had the ability to recall events in vivid visual detail - revisiting old memories like full high-definition films - though often accompanied by my own narration, the director's cut no one asked for. Alongside this, I have always had the ability to dream of key individuals or glimpses of the future.
They have happened so frequently that I can no longer dismiss them as mere coincidence. For many years, I carried a quiet shame about them - wary of the stigma surrounding an innate "inner knowing". Yet, I am certain of one thing - this gift has been a guiding force in my life.
The precognitive dreams themselves are seldom extravagant. They are vibrant yet seemingly random snippets - snapshots of scenery, faces of people yet to come into my life, or fragments of emotion tied to moments I do not yet understand. What distinguishes these dreams is the sensation they leave behind. Upon waking, it is as though a gong has been struck within me - resonant, inescapable, and deeply engraved in my mind. This intensity led me to begin sketching these in my journals - hesitant at first, but driven by an inexplicable sense that they were not to be feared but explored. Over time, I have learnt to recognise the feeling of receiving one and instead of reacting with apprehension, I now welcome them with gratitude.
Curiously, they often serve as nods following pivotal life decisions - akin to déjà vu but far more deliberate. It feels as though some aspect of my subconscious - or perhaps something beyond it - is offering me reassurance, reminding me that I am on the right path, even amidst adversity. My life has not been without difficulty and in those moments, these dreams have felt like a deep exhale - a signpost amidst the chaos, urging me to persevere.
One example remains particularly vivid. When I moved to a new city years ago, I struggled deeply with being there. One morning, I awoke with a vivid image in my mind - a corporate office with a large unfamiliar window. I remember standing in the room, experiencing a peculiar blend of harrowing grief and excitement - and beyond the glass, I saw a towering crane. I sketched it immediately. Weeks later, I unexpectedly began a new role reporting to a director whose office window matched the one from my dream - save for the absence of the crane.
Years passed and a major development began across from our office. A crane appeared. Around this time, I suffered a profound loss that shattered me to my core. I recall lying on the carpet, paralysed by a grief so heavy it made my breaths feel like lead. In that moment, stripped bare by sorrow, I recognised the lies I had been telling myself. I was not living the life I wanted. With tear-soaked hair, I wrote my resignation letter and resolved to start my own company. It felt reckless and exhilarating, but most of all - it felt right.
One early morning, as I returned to the office after the bereavement leave, I saw it - the scene from my dream - now fully realised, crane and all. It was as though the threads of my dream and reality had converged, a reassuring nod from the universe that everything would indeed be alright. And it was. Starting my company remains one of the best decisions I have ever made.
Recently, I have begun to discuss this phenomenon more openly. To my surprise or maybe relief - I discovered that others have had similar experiences - and it often appears to run in families - a fascinating detail.
At present, my journal holds a sketch of a rainy night in an unfamiliar metropolitan city, featuring a distinct gallery - and a large resonant painting. I have yet to encounter this scene - but I trust that, when the time is right, I will.