It’s five minutes before eight. I’m supposed to wake Shayna up at 8 o’clock. I can’t wait. I’m excited to see her beautiful face. I’m going to wake her early.
I walk downstairs. She’s sleeping in the basement on a pull-out couch. I think it’s my parents’ house. I look down. She looks so peaceful sleeping that I hate to wake her. She’s about five or six years old.
As I look at her, her body is suddenly very different. She looks like ET. She’s an alien. She’s not green She’s an off-white color. I get the impression that I’m seeing her real form. I wonder if other people can also see her this way. I realize her form doesn’t matter. I don’t love her body. I love her soul. An overwhelming sense of love for her and gratitude comes over me like a wave. I’m grateful that I can have her in this form or any form or no form at all. Because I know she’s not supposed to be here.
Then, her skin becomes like glass, completely transparent, and smooth. I can see her inside her skin. The color is that color of the glow-in-the-dark figures we had as kids, off white. I look at her brain. It’s completely smooth. I think, “That’s not where her mind is.”
There’s a time jump. I see Shayna, awake now, nuzzling a baby, full of life and happy, back to her standard form. She’s joyous.
I wake up.