Sometimes, when I dream, I dream about the future. Sometimes I dream about the past. I dream about the future, and I dream about the past.
I dreamed that I left my current job and returned to my former one. I dreamed that all my old friends and colleagues were there to welcome me back. I regaled them with tales of my misadventures from the two-year "expedition" from which I had returned. They laughed, cheered, shook their heads in amazement and disgust, and finally reassured me that I was home. It felt good to be back.
I don't read too much into any of my dreams. Reality would not go down that way. I was able to leave my last job on my own terms, but turnover was high there, and most of my contemporaries are long gone. I'd be lying if I said I never think about going back, but the practical reasons for my leaving still apply, and, whatever my present complaints, I'm thankful to be able to work a regular eight-hour shift now that leaves me free not to think about work for the other half of my day. But I suppose it's natural that a part of me also misses those days.