It is cold and dark. The ice crystals break under my feet, the sole companion to the howling wind and my frosty breath. Silent and eerie streetlights pass over my head, stretching over me like the ribcage of some long forgotten, and long dead, mythical creature. Their declining and worn yellow glow shine down upon the snow, bringing an unreal luminosity to cloaked ground - an ominous light coming from below, not above.
The flat and demure city passes by me slowly, it's buildings disappearing into the concept horizon behind me that I cannot see, do not wish to see - an unspeakable void in my mind. Creaking trees on my right. Kindergarten on my left. Why did I choose this path, when I prefer the forest?
"Am I in a hurry? Why did I leave? Where am I going?"Those questions are of no relevance. But others are: "Why am I stopping so soon? Why this sojourn? Why am I stopping
there."
But I don't know. My feet have conquered my mind, defying it and leading it, along with the rest of me, to that dreaded place.
Stairs. I don't want to go up.
"That's silly, of course you can go up these stairs, you've been here more than a thousand times." And I walk on, hood tucked down into my face.
"Did I actually just stop there? I hope no one saw me."The world retracts a bit, the street widening to a road street with parking lots on both sides. Even the threatening streetlights back away a bit - perhaps scared of the open space, not at all unlike me. They are older here, projecting wisdom and knowledge from their classical crested frameworks on their timeless wooden poles. Strength, perhaps. They are upright, even in this near-glacial night.
Right. Left. One more right. And I'm there. The white painted door on it's stony podium seems so nondescript, almost secretive of what lies behind. "Come on in, if you dare." Do I? I walk in, but I don't know if I dare.
Eyes fixed on the ground. Brown and speckled linoleum floor. Is there a mirror to the right? And maybe an open cabinet of some sorts? I don't recall. Left is easier. A coat rack, the kitchen door, a closet, and a door that leads to a humming and moaning, long-obsolete oil furnace with a visage that always seems to convey anger and dismay. I never liked looking at it. On the ceiling is a white firealarm, also nondescript. Right in a middle is an old man, leaning onto a walking aid sort of trolley. He stares at me. Disbelief?
"Hi" - in an overly confident manner, much more than what would be truthful - "hi." His face is red and swollen in one side, the skin draping down in a manner that makes is obvious - even with little difference from the other side to bring contrast - that this side could not express any emotions, even if he attempted to do so.
My "hi" is still lingering in the air. I walk left, into the angular kitchen with the wooden counter - around the corner, quickly. I open the freezer and pop in my Bacardi Breezers from my backpack.
I walk out again. He's gone. Straight forward into the living room - he's in the couch at the left end of the room. The christmas tree is still on my left, not surprising in this house, even in may. May? Why is it snowing in may? And it's not a fir - it's a Norway spruce. It was
always fir.
It's uncomfortable now. Maybe five or ten minutes pass in a state where my mind is denying everything. That state where your vocal cords go into low-power mode, seemingly autonomously bluttering mindless fill into the atmosphere while you're too busy thinking. I decide to yield in dread. Something is wrong. This
is wrong, even if I didn't feel like something
else is wrong.
I adamantly step forward to offer him a hug - the same resoluteness that uttered "hi" just moments ago - tapped from an unknown depot of obscure and mal placed civility. He refuses. His right arm held out in front of him, blocking my way to his considerably corporeal body, and at the same time offering me to shake his hand. I shake it. Once.
My soles almost cry out on the wooden living room floor as I turn on my heels quickly, but not too quickly. I glare in despair at the wrong christmas tree, finding my way to the kitchen with solid steps. Open the freezer, grab my spirits. I can't close it again. Things keep rolling out, blocking the door. Several tries and what seems like ages later, I succeed. I find the door. I make it out. The icy gust hits my face hard; a welcome feeling of life when you've been so close to death.
I wake up with a jolt.
(Original comment "Almost scared" by dj_aguy
2004-05-31 06:51 am)
That was extremely well written. The emotion behind it almost jump out at me. But it was so melodically. I am left with a feeling of sadness and worry. Is there a reason to this dream? Is this more then a dream? It hurts to think that things like this have happened to you, even if these things happen all the time.
