Where do stories begin?

I have spent most of my boyhood and adult life in apartments whose windows open upto a sky, and a sky that's hazy through winter and blue and white in the rainy months of July-August, deep azure in Autumn. I don't recall how the summer skies look in my city. The Sun is too bright, and I hardly ever look up. The skies of my life have been populated with falcons, parrots, crows , stars, clouds, thunderstorms, some lonely migratory albatrosses, and more than often aeroplanes. Even before I had stepped on an Airplane I have had dreams about it, a recurring dream of an aeroplane crashing somewhere in my private sky- fireworks, tragedy. I have had such illogical fears about flying that I would do certain ritual things before I step on to a flight. I do that every time I fly alone, and mostly I fly alone with strangers hugging my surroundings. 

This recurring dream was certainly not the reason for such fears, but I could trace it back to here- may be a Jung or a Freud will have other opinions but as far as I am concerned these dreams have always provided me with material to work on, to write and share, to color my life with an ordered chaos, to imagine and reimagine- metaphors and metastasis. I worship what I imagine (my God is different than yours). 

This is where stories begin. A plane crash, 1945. Should I navigate my dream to unlock history or should I just adorn the myth that surrounds us from time to time? How do I write that book ?