Had a dream in vivid color last night. A series of dreams, really. But all with the same goal.

I was going to Europe. In my room at home, planning my departure. Driving to the airport, to fly to Europe. And without having studied any psychoanalytic theories, I know why I never got there.

The short answer is that I'm an idiot. One of the reasons I took a reduced load this term was so I could look for fellowships, but when I finally looked at the Lawrence University Fellowships page last night, many of the deadlines had passed.

(My fellowship of choice was the Marshall Scholarship, for two years of study at a British university. So much for that.)

I'm really not sure what I want to do yet, which is why I'm glad there's still a Rotary Scholarship out there. I should know by December, I think. Or have some ideas.

God, senior year.

I'm not even sure I want to leave America. There are some big cities I'd like to see.

But, as far as Dreamland goes, why shouldn't Europe serve as a convenient symbol for my nebulous plans, my unknown destination? Twice now, I've gone there and lived a radically different life. And come back, perhaps wiser, but certainly changed.

Dim memories of another dream, a month or so ago. More thinly-veiled anxiety about the future, but this time I'm not driving down Highway 371 on a sunny day. I'm in one of those weird dream amalgamations of a building — my high school, with bits of the Freiburg university library and an airport mixed in.

This dream is also in color. Graham is in this dream, which is odd. We've all got these black-and-white booklets with pictures of university librarians, and all these librarians, from all over the world, are looking for students to do research projects.

I pick this scary-looking man from Chile, but while rushing to my plane I notice that I'm the only person heading towards that particular gate.

Graham, standing in a lengthy line outside what used to be our high school's main bathroom, explains that he's going to Denmark — and I wonder why I didn't read the whole booklet. The librarians were arranged alphabetically by country, and I seem to have stopped at the C's.

The plane to Denmark — like every plane in this building that is starting to look more and more like an airport — is leaving in five minutes. Graham suggests that I exchange my tickets, if I can. Privately, I wonder if there's a better country than Denmark.

And I'm running, flustered. I wake up then, having never left the airport.

These aren't bad dreams, necessarily. They certainly look nice, with all those unnecessarily brilliant colors.