Dreaming

I dreamed that I never sold my (I mean our) house in Philadelphia and I was so terribly relieved that I nearly cried. Thank god, I thought. It was all a dream and now everything will be all right again. Then I woke up.

A whole year and a bit on and still, I dream this dream. Different angles, different seasons. Sometimes a friend stops me from selling the house. Sometimes I have to race through a sort of distopia to prevent someone from stealing it. Sometimes I just sit on the steps. Sometimes I dreamed that it’s been sold but that I can buy it back.

It’s not like life was perfect there. It really wasn’t. Life never is. And it’s possible that I have a tendency to get a little rose-colored around the edges of my vision when I peer at the past. But only a little. And it’s not like things are all that bad now. Just that they’re not what they were.

I haven’t been writing here because I haven’t anything new to say really. Not to myself. Not to you (all one of you, or perhaps none by this point). But maybe that shouldn’t stop me writing. Maybe the very act of writing will be something new. And maybe I’ll find something new to say. I do keep wondering when this sense that I am stuck in a quagmire will change. Maybe the only way to change it, is to change it.