This dream starts with me standing outside my old place in Kingsford. It's a brilliantly sunny day and the sky is blue without a trace of cloud.
The building is as weary as ever, and a slight mustiness hits me as I open the front door to go up the stairs. My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, and I wonder how it came to be so dark inside when it never used to be that way.
Slowly I fumble my way up the stairs, taking what seems like a very long time. I get to the top of the familiar landing, and turn to the left where my old flat was. There is a little more light here and I can see that the doors are blue. A cheery blue, in between light and dark blue, just the ordinary type of colour that would suit the door to a storage room.
As I get closer to the door I realise the bronze letters on the door say 15 instead of 11. I wonder how the apartment could have changed its numbering system. Then I see that the door is actually blistered. Large pockets of paint have lifted from the door, as if something had impatiently pushed the paint out of the way in an attempt to escape. A faint warmth radiates from the door, making me think about whether there might be a fire inside.
Without using a key, I push open the door and smell the remnant of a fire. It feels like it has come and past, but the lingering smoke is still acrid. The internal structure of the flat is changed as well - I am standing in a passageway with the bedroom off to the right, and the kitchen/living off to the left.
I become aware of the sensation that someone else is in the flat as well. I tiptoe towards the bedroom. There is a lot of bedding strewn on the floor, and P is sitting amidst it all on a brown striped sleeping bag. I contemplate briefly whether I have ever seen this unusual pattern in a sleeping bag (but after I woke up I realise it is the same pattern as my pillowcase).
Then I see that he is well set up, as if he is squatting in my flat. There is a camping gas stove and some cooking stuff (a pot, tongs, cutlery) nearby; books seem to be scattered everywhere. He sits, intently reading a book that seems very familiar, and he is so absorbed he doesn't even look up to see me enter the room. As I get closer I realise that one of the books around him on the ground is the diary I had patched with a postcard of a woman eating a bunch of grapes when the front cover had fallen off. Then I realise that all the books on the ground are my diaries from various times in my life.
My heart races and I scream silently. Then I wake up.
The building is as weary as ever, and a slight mustiness hits me as I open the front door to go up the stairs. My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, and I wonder how it came to be so dark inside when it never used to be that way.
Slowly I fumble my way up the stairs, taking what seems like a very long time. I get to the top of the familiar landing, and turn to the left where my old flat was. There is a little more light here and I can see that the doors are blue. A cheery blue, in between light and dark blue, just the ordinary type of colour that would suit the door to a storage room.
As I get closer to the door I realise the bronze letters on the door say 15 instead of 11. I wonder how the apartment could have changed its numbering system. Then I see that the door is actually blistered. Large pockets of paint have lifted from the door, as if something had impatiently pushed the paint out of the way in an attempt to escape. A faint warmth radiates from the door, making me think about whether there might be a fire inside.
Without using a key, I push open the door and smell the remnant of a fire. It feels like it has come and past, but the lingering smoke is still acrid. The internal structure of the flat is changed as well - I am standing in a passageway with the bedroom off to the right, and the kitchen/living off to the left.
I become aware of the sensation that someone else is in the flat as well. I tiptoe towards the bedroom. There is a lot of bedding strewn on the floor, and P is sitting amidst it all on a brown striped sleeping bag. I contemplate briefly whether I have ever seen this unusual pattern in a sleeping bag (but after I woke up I realise it is the same pattern as my pillowcase).
Then I see that he is well set up, as if he is squatting in my flat. There is a camping gas stove and some cooking stuff (a pot, tongs, cutlery) nearby; books seem to be scattered everywhere. He sits, intently reading a book that seems very familiar, and he is so absorbed he doesn't even look up to see me enter the room. As I get closer I realise that one of the books around him on the ground is the diary I had patched with a postcard of a woman eating a bunch of grapes when the front cover had fallen off. Then I realise that all the books on the ground are my diaries from various times in my life.
My heart races and I scream silently. Then I wake up.
