Curiosity is the seed of knowledge!

by Sanman Thapa | 01/19/2025 | 10:45 pm

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Some dreams vanish into the depths of memory, while others linger, returning when we least expect them—puzzling, persistent, and full of intrigue. I first had this dream around 1979, and it returned in 2020. What does it mean when a childhood dream resurfaces decades later? Is it a mere echo of my past imagination, or does it carry a more profound, hidden meaning waiting to be unraveled?

The sound of a loud explosion in the sky jolted me, making me instinctively look upward. What I saw was beyond comprehension—two massive aircraft colliding in midair, the impact sending fiery orange and blue streaks across the sky. My heart pounded, and an overwhelming sense of fear gripped me. I wanted to run, to hide, but my body refused to move. Once a vast calm expanse, the sky turned ominously dark as though forewarning an impending storm.

Above me, the sky was filled with aircraft of all sizes and shapes, each casting a clamor of sounds. They crisscrossed the sky at varying speeds, creating a chaotic yet strangely mesmerizing display. The larger aircraft trudged steadily, like floating giants, while medium-sized ones darted swiftly, launching ballistic devices with precision. The smallest aircraft maneuvered aggressively, executing sharp twists and rapid turns, weaving through the crowded airspace like swarms of relentless insects.

It was undeniable—I was witnessing a war. A war waged in the sky. The smaller aircraft struck the larger ones with piercing laser beams, and despite their sluggish movement, the gigantic aircraft were easy targets, vulnerable and exposed. Some smaller aircraft appeared to be defending their larger counterparts, but they were losing ground. Who were they fighting? What was the cause of this battle? And most importantly, what was I—what were we—on the ground supposed to do? Run? Hide? Fight back?

The sky was at war, but the ground beneath my feet stayed eerily still. I didn’t know whether to feel comforted by that quiet or uneasy like I was waiting for something to break. Watching the planes above, I couldn’t look away, even though each movement carried a weight I didn’t fully understand.

When one of them exploded, fiery debris spiraling downward, it felt surreal—like something so far away shouldn’t have the power to make my chest tighten. I wasn’t sure if I was captivated by the destruction or by the strange, mechanical beauty of it all. But standing there, powerless to do anything but watch, I couldn’t shake the thought: What was keeping me safe, and for how long?

It felt bizarre, like a scene from a science fiction movie—Star Wars or Independence Day. In the theater, immersed in darkness and surrounded by deafening sounds, it’s easy to get lost in the spectacle. Emotions subside and flow—fear, excitement, hope—but deep down, we know it’s just a movie. When the credits roll, the illusion fades, and we step back into reality, distracted by the glow of streetlights and the hum of the bustling city.

Then, the moment came—their biggest aircraft was struck from multiple angles. It convulsed in the sky, bursting into an explosion far more powerful than the earlier collision. The shockwave rippled across the blue sky that turned dark orange, and with a jolt, I woke up—startled, breathless, and afraid.

It was a dream.

But it wasn’t just any dream.

I had seen it before—almost 40 years ago. I was only four or five years old when I first dreamed of the sky filled with warring aircraft. As a child, I lacked the understanding to make sense of it, but the images remained engraved in my memory—the burning sky, the battles above, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness. I find myself puzzled—why has this dream returned after so many years?

To put it into perspective, I grew up in a remote mountainous village in Nepal. In those days, planes were mysterious, distant shapes against the vast blue sky. I remember standing outside in the afternoons, watching tiny specks gliding over the peaks. From my vantage point in the mountains, they seemed no bigger than the blinking stars at night, reflecting sunlight briefly before disappearing.

My first actual reference to an airplane was in a prekindergarten book—A for Airplane, B for Ball, C for Cat. With its colorful illustrations, that book was my only window to the outside world. We had no television, radio, or access to movies or books beyond what the school provided. The idea of aircraft existed only in my imagination, pieced together from the rudimentary drawings in my alphabet book.

I was 45 years old when I dreamt the same dream for the second time. Having lived in New York for nearly three decades, I see that the sight of airplanes has become as ordinary as the street traffic below. I have watched countless war films, from Apocalypse Now to Star Wars, and have been exposed to endless theories about UFOs and futuristic warfare. In today’s world, it’s not far-fetched to imagine a sky filled with combat drones and motherships. But back then—when I was just a child in a quiet mountainous village—where did this dream come from?

This dream, recurring after so many years, leaves me with questions. Is it a reflection of my childhood imagination, or is there something deeper, buried in the folds of memory and time? What would Freud say about this dream? Freud, known for his theory of dreams as expressions of repressed desires and unresolved conflicts, might argue that this recurring vision manifests subconscious fears or unfulfilled aspirations. According to his psychoanalytic perspective, the aircraft could symbolize a sense of control, power, or even latent anxieties about one’s environment and place in the world. 

As I delved deeper into the meaning of this recurring dream, I realized that Freud might argue that dreams are the royal road to the unconscious. This dream may reflect unresolved fears or desires buried deep within my psyche. Could it symbolize inner conflict, the tension between my past and present, my rural upbringing, and my urban life? Or does it point to an unexpressed anxiety about change, loss, or the unknown?

But why did I have this dream as a young child without exposure to the modern world I live in now? Could it be a form of collective unconscious, as Carl Jung might suggest, tapping into archetypal fears that transcend cultural and temporal boundaries? Or does it reflect a universal human curiosity and apprehension about the unknown, even in the mind of a child?

As I reflect, I realize that dreams have a peculiar way of revealing parts of ourselves we often overlook. Whether this dream is rooted in reality, imagination, or something more profound, I am left in awe of the mysteries my mind continues to explore, even after all these years. Will I ever truly understand its significance, or will it remain a mystery woven into my subconscious? 

Have you ever experienced a recurring dream that left you questioning its significance? Dreams can glimpse our deepest fears and desires—what do yours reveal? I’d love to hear about your experiences with recurring dreams in the comments below.

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