The Glass Room

Almost thirty-something and can't say what I'm chasing in this life. There are re-occurring dreams that I have which may indicate that this is just a transition stage of a developing existence from before. Scientific fact, according to them that call themselves they, you don't dream of something you haven't seen in real life before. But I vividly dream of being in a house I have never before seen in my life. There's a long corridor branched with bedrooms, not unusual no but this corridor ends with a master bedroom with a peculiar glass room in the centre of it. Not so much a wardrobe, all random and weird things are kept in it. It's messy and cluttered. As if in spite, the overflowing items contradict the see through glass. There are carpet floors only in the master bedroom, making it both warmer and confusingly displaced to the other bedrooms. On the opposite side of the house is a kitchen, nothing fancy and an adjoining sunken lounge. The lounge is strikingly smart but outdated. I can see a kitchen backdoor I have escaped many nightmares from... into hidden passageways but that is a different story. I hear people chatter in this kitchen lounge area of the house but I am alone and wander away down the corridor, curious. I always end up sleeping in the first bedroom furthest from the master. It has twin beds, leaving one bed unnecessarily taxing on my conscious in the orderly moonlight. Shining through the modernest white blinds which illuminate both the empty bed and the conventional wooden floors. The duvet is stiff and cold. I hear doors open and close and then I'm asleep and the house is dissolved into another dream. 

Other times I find myself walking around the peculiar glass room within the master bedroom which leads to four steps down into the actual wardrobe and bathroom area. The roof is low, a secret for those that dare. Again in another dream, it is here in the walk-in wardrobe that I can vividly see myself younger playing with my friends. With sleeping bags and toys, speaking of boys and dreams, ensuingly rebellious and blacking out from too much alcohol.  Like I had lived my whole childhood in this house but slept in the guest twin bedroom every night.   Most strange is the door leading outside from the wardrobe. Who would even design that? But there it is and I open it every now and then. Finding myself on a white and blue tiled entrainment area with an Olympic sized pool as blue as every association with the Greek colour. That rich, blue and yet just cool enough to still be inviting colour. I feel this overwhelming emotion that the white tiles were scrubbed intentionally to hide an atrocity. Never do I take more than a couple steps before I retreat not wanting to be apart of it. The invite turns into more of an impending allurement. Fallen leaves from the perfectly landscaped redwing dogwood hugging the discriminatingly exclusive high walls are blown around relentlessly. In that moment of the dream I stand white knuckled hand still holding the door handle, squinting my eyes to see how this part of the house, for some time, hasn't been celebrated except to keep the pool immaculate and the tiles errorless. Like an outsider with enough inside knowledge to know that this house is not my home, I go back. This is the part of the dream that I search for that kitchen lounge chatter. Searching for new information. It automatically turns to night at this point, I don't know why. Perhaps it is only in the night that we seek what we are longing for? Giving light to atrocities or truth versions of ourselves that eventually appear. 

The goal of any dream is to survive right? Never do you actually die... normally it consists of snippets of a parallel universe where you did the "right" thing. So you're there saving yourself with nothing but an intrinsic gut feeling and the hope that the dream either evolves or stops. Which in my almost thirty-something life believes and grips onto the hope that it will, evolve and we discover that I'm not as dislocated as my night re-incarnations. Curiosity for that singular hand to hold bringing sense to 'whatever this all means' when I wake up. Knot your fingers into mine.