Here’s some background info first: I’ve been sick for a couple days. Completely rundown. Actually, all my whining about being rundown from sheer pleasure has been a little inflated compared to Sunday night and yesterday. I truly hit a wall. This, after a weekend of excessive fun and pleasure. Oh, poor little hedonist and her rough life.
Anyway, I have been veering off my daily routine. Not myself lately. And it’s not that I am complaining. I’m not! But my subconscious is, in a sad, lost soul kind of way.
All that being said, here’s the dream:
I was with my family in a big house on a hill and at one point, I went to go to my own house, which was at the bottom of the hill in this little town of multi-colored row houses. I’d been many times before, but honestly, it seemed more like an old shanty-looking, vacation home. So, I grabbed the key from my parents’ house and headed down the hill to see some of the stuff that I had stored there- namely, my journals.
When I got to the row of houses, mine was completely gone. Erased. And via eavesdropping on some of the residents, I learned that the owner of the town had burned down the house and took over the land to build his own place. He felt my house had been vacant too long and decided it was abandoned.
I cried hysterically and ran back to my family home, sobbing not so much over the loss of the actual house or my other stuff, but for the journals. When I told my mother what had happened, she said, “you go back to that man and tell him you want your things back. He owes you! He stole your property.”
So, I went back to go yell at him but before I got the chance, I came upon a resident who told me that the owner had saved my journals and that they were still in the basement (foundation), in the part of the house that wasn’t burned. On that news, I headed down into the basement, which was more a crawl space. I moved through cobwebs and dirt and darkness and there to the right was a huge, green incinerator filled from top to bottom with unburned books of mine, ready to be set afire. At the very top, as I climbed into yet a tinier, but brighter section of the crawl space (there was a window, though dirty), there I saw all my journals, safely preserved and painted gold.