I had a dream last night, and wanted to put it down before it gets lost forever. This one featured a friend of mine, she knows who she is, and it is written as if I am speaking to her. But, you might enjoy this trip through my brain as well…

Last nights dream…

I was gently shaken from my slumber and awoke to find you seated on the side of the bed, your presence immediately bringing me to full consciousness. The “bed” itself was a peculiar sight—a colossal heap of blankets arranged in a rectangular shape, simultaneously flat, crumpled and soft. Nestled in its center, I tried to make sense of the whole situation when you teasingly asked, “What are you wearing?” Confused, I looked down and discovered myself donned in an unconventional ensemble—a t-shirt, a kilt, and combat boots.

“These aren’t my clothes,” I muttered, as if that explanation would somehow normalize the surreal setting we found ourselves in. We were inside a house, although I knew it wasn’t mine or yours, nor did it resemble a hotel. The ambiance exuded an unmistakable “old lady” vibe, with knickknacks and trinkets adorning every possible shelf-like surface. The air carried the scent of a bygone era, a peculiar blend of Pine Sol and faded rose perfume.

You scooted closer, settling down beside me on the makeshift bed. We lay on our backs, and our gazes fixated on the ceiling, which had a popcorn texture dotted with glittering specks. Sunlight filtered through the window, transforming the ceiling into a twinkling expanse that mimicked the glitter of stars. Grasping my hand, you spoke with gentle conviction, “Time to talk…” Hours slipped by unnoticed as we engaged in animated conversations about a myriad of topics, pointing up at the ceiling with drama to drive our points home or push a punchline. The specifics of our dialogue elude my memory, but the laughter echoed vividly, and our shared connection felt profound. It was as if we had discovered our purpose — to be together, here in this place, reveling in each other’s presence and chatting about everything and nothing.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, revealing the entrance of an elderly woman. You recognized her, but she was a stranger to me, her presence lacked any familial resemblance to you as well. As you approached her, I sat up and turned my attention to the window. The sky outside was afire with vibrant colors of sunset, and a grand circular driveway unfolded before my eyes. A procession of elegantly dressed elderly individuals arrived in vintage luxury cars, while white-gloved butlers in tuxedos dutifully opened their doors. “They must be here for the banquet,” I surmised.

Returning my focus to you and the mysterious woman, I observed as she cradled your face in her hands, and you cradled hers, your foreheads gently touching. A profound conversation seemed to transpire between you, yet no words were spoken, and your mouths remained still. Both of you exuded a sense of calm, intently gazing into each other’s eyes.

Breaking the tender moment, she withdrew her hands and admonished, “You two need to stop dilly-dallying with all this chatter.” Her voice evoked an era long past, reminiscent of the 19th century. “Rest. Prepare for work tomorrow,” she instructed, a faint smile gracing her lips before she departed.

I rose from the crumpled bed and made my way to the cluttered bathroom, an extension of the disarrayed bedroom. The sink’s surface peeked through an assortment of oils, lotions, and creams, emitting the same fragrance as the woman we had encountered. Emerging from the bathroom, I found myself unexpectedly standing in the hallway, away from the bedroom. A man claiming to be my father (though clearly not my real father) called out to me from down the cluttered Victorian corridor, “Son! Your bags ended up in my room. You’ll need your clothes.”

Curiosity piqued, I followed his voice and entered his room. Amidst the assortment of belongings, I spotted a duffle bag that I recognized as mine. However, upon opening it, I discovered no clothes within—instead, it housed a collection of my sketchbooks, papers, and every creation I had ever painted or drawn throughout my entire life. Amongst these familiar works, a few unfamiliar pieces caught my attention, invoking the thought, “Ah… I haven’t created those yet. Soon.” Carrying the bag back to the original room, I found you still seated on the edge of the peculiar bed.

You patted the spot beside you, beckoning me to join you. “Forget about work tomorrow. We’re not done talking,” you insisted warmly. Yielding to your invitation, I laid down next to you, our heads touching while our feet were apart from each other, we formed an inverted letter “V.” We resumed holding hands, but as our gazes turned upward, the ceiling vanished, revealing an expanse of open night sky adorned with countless stars.

No longer confined within the bedroom, we now found ourselves in a vast field, swaying grass surrounding us as we gazed at the stars. A gentle tune wafted through the air, though its origin remained indiscernible. With a touch of nostalgia, you remarked, “I love this version of ‘Parabola’…”

I turned to you and began to respond, “This doesn’t sound like Parabola at all… Is it a cover?” Yet, as my gaze met yours, you underwent a remarkable transformation, aging before my eyes, stretching forward across centuries. Despite the profound change, your eyes remained the same, and a tender smile graced your aged features.

And then, I awakened abruptly, my alarm blaring through the room. The simulated acoustic guitar that roused me shattered the illusion of the song. It wasn’t “Parabola” after all—just the piercing notes of my alarm, leaving me with mental pictures of a dreamscape that had slipped away…