I think, sometimes, that my visions are of the future. I do not inform others of this, because it means I would be taken back to the operating table immediately, my brain dissected to discover what precise mix of biochemistry allows me to catch such glimpses of the future. While I do not fear such a situation, I do not desire it, either.
My continued existence is of no real import to me, but I tell no one for the same reason I do not commit suicide: just because my continued life does not matter does not mean I am ready to quit it. If I had to define it further, I would say it is a survival instinct that never went away despite the damage dealt my brain during my training. It is the same impulse that keeps a person edging away from a ledge despite the rampant curiosity of what it would be like to jump. Indeed, I experienced as much once in my life before my training, on the top of a skyscraper in
Be that as it may, my occasional visions have grown increasingly accurate. I recognized our starship, the SS Terra, upon first viewing. My introduction to the other members of the crew had something of the familiar to it. The training I am going through now is almost already known to me. Sometimes, I could take over a lecture being given us, silently speaking the words a syllable ahead of whoever stands before us, preparing us.
Though my dream-visions aren't entirely about the training I go through now, in preparation for exploring space. Fewer and fewer are, in fact.
Mostly, now, I dream of violence.