Along with the loneliness comes the restless sleep: constant tossing and turning, feeling my eyes burn with tiredness, slipping in and out of dreams.
I awake with muscles feeling sore, as if I have been fighting in my sleep, but the theme of my dreams seems largely peaceful.
I am trying to string together sense of the bits and pieces I remember:
I rode in an elevator that went both up and down, then sideways and moved as freely as a roller coaster in ascending and descending at angles. Doors opened on two sides, and there were poles from ceiling to floor for passengers to hold on as it moved quickly. There were only three buttons for controls: up, down, and to the right.
I remember taking the elevator to some place on a University campus. Don’t recognize it as any one in particular. There were lots of statues and murals and large open lawns. I could not read the bronze plaques that accompanied them.
My father was giving a 5 year old a lecture about diabetes and how it destroys the body. Not sure that’s appropriate for a 5 year old or something he’ll even remember, but I’m sure he’ll be traumatized ever after for it.
I was with family and we were going to go swimming but couldn’t find any sunscreen. As they searched in vain, I figured I might as well go swimming without it: I’ll just get darker.
We were at an old house, one of those older Victorian age houses where much thought and care went into deciding each detail, down to the order of bricks in the fireplace and the carvings above a door frame. A new owner, an older gentleman, had come into possession of it. He was open to visitors, and my heart was filled with excitement and I wondered if I could ask him if I might stay long to explore: this house was the perfect place for there to be buried treasure: so many nooks and crannies, details to mask false panels and secret doors, and it was large enough that secret passages seemed guaranteed.
Something about the dream left a sense of deja vu, and I am still left feeling sad and lonely.