I moved into a new home when I was four. Home, that word feels humble, this new home was immense. I was young enough that I often confused reality with imagination. As I explored and became lost in this new giant of a house I also became lost in my mind. I remember, I use this term loosely, finding rooms in the fragmentary attic consisting of all wood, walls missing. I would crawl in the empty spaces. The light of the sun was my only point of reference for a way out in the dark recesses of this new world. When I think back on it I cannot really separate what was real and what was make believe. I would wake up thinking it had all been a dream only to find out that it wasn't, I really lived here. My dreams, imagination, and the vastness of my new home have all melted into a very alluring memory indeed.
This is a recurring dream of mine. That there is a secret room in our house. I know how to get there in my dream and it all makes so much sense. In waking life it feels like a memory, just not one that fit's into spacial reality.
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