Chuck (charlesofcamden) wrote,

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Not So Sweet a Dream

This is a dream I had a long time ago. I don’t remember exactly when; I may still have been a teenager, but I was probably in my twenties. It was brief and uneventful, yet it’s had a curious staying power.

I am in the living room of a house. The sense is that it is my home. The architectural style appears to be mid- to late twentieth century ranch. Visually, the scene is pretty simple. The room is still, quiet, neat, and clean. It looks as if it is little/never used. There is no TV or stereo to be seen; at least, not at the angle seen in my dream. An off-white couch rests upon an off-white carpet. The walls are painted yellow. I am facing the dark yellow nylon curtains that hang floor-to-ceiling, and which span across most of the front wall of the room. The curtains are closed, but a substantial amount of bright sunlight is coming through on the edges, making the room reasonably well illuminated.

There is no sound to speak of. I don’t mean that the ‘mute’ button is on; I mean that nothing there is making a sound, though perhaps there is a soft static pop coming from a rustling curtain, or maybe the sound of a far-off voice or vehicle is filtering through from the outside.

The preceding may sound like the set up to a forthcoming description of what happens in the dream, but no; that’s pretty much the whole dream, except for one other thing – the mood. I have the distinct impression that this is a typical day in the life of the person viewing the dream – who is presumably me. It’s a little reminiscent of the room the aliens have prepared for the aged earthling near the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey, except that I don’t believe I’d yet seen that film when I had the dream.

Upon awakening, I was immediately depressed at having lived, even for a moment, even in a mere dream, in such a dead, solitary environment. My immediate resolution: I will not, I cannot see this dream become a reality. Like it or not, this scene has become a piece of yellow litmus paper against which my life is periodically tested.

At present, my walls are not yellow – or at least, they’re not painted yellow. My curtains do not run from floor to ceiling. My living room, God knows, is nowhere near neat & clean. My building is not quiet. And I’m not alone. Mind you, I treasure my alone time, but I also treasure my circle of friends, of whom I ask only one thing: Should you ever come by and find me sitting in the room from my dream, please drag me out into the street, dead or alive, and put me in touch with the living, breathing, dynamic earth.

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