No one cares about my dream

I dream about time travel. Not often, but often enough that it’s a theme. You know?

And I don’t mean, like, seeing dinosaurs or the 18th century. It’s always this weird illustration of a paradox or an ironic twist out of Twilight Zone.

For example, in my most recent time travel dream I fell into the near future, maybe a matter of a few hours, where my actions indirectly killed someone across the street whom I couldn’t see. I fell back into the present where I spent the next couple of hours kind of freaking out about the whole event, took a drive to clear my head, got out to stretch my legs, and had the most gut wrenching sense of déjà vu you can imagine. I knew instantly what you figured out a couple sentences ago if you’ve read more than a handful of sci-fi stories — I was about to be killed by me. The realization woke me up like when you dream about falling — only it was the inevitability of causality instead of gravity that terrified me awake.

I mean, what the hell was that about, subconscious?