Dream Eternal

When I was but only the mere age of 10 I started having a dream, a series of subconscious thoughts that became one. For 15 years it was the same dream, night after night. It was lucid yet uncontrollable in everyway that counted. I remember the dream the same way I remember the smell of a rose. The hall was a thing of art only the artist had such a broken mind, torn and tattered but just enough vivid hope to collect colors. The corridor appeared almost infinite and finite to a degree. Crimson carpet lined the entirety of the floor down the passage while the walls were a pearl white.

Often I didn’t bother looking up because it was as black as the void of space...only there were no stars, just an eternal abyss of shade. Red door doors filled in the spaces along the snowy walls on the left harboring black crosses, and on the right were black doors with silver crosses. In the beginning the lucidity was within my grasp. I roamed the passage ever so curiously for the first few nights wondering what it all meant. I could hardly tell I was asleep let alone within the confines of my own mind. For an entire week I wouldn’t so much as touch a door, as a child I was more interested in the smells and sounds that lied in wait behind each door.

Some of them smelled sweet and homely as a house on Sunday right after pastries were pulled from loving ovens; others smelled as if they held a grip on sorrow and shame. I could almost feel the life behind each and every one. However with every passing night I could feel the hallway speaking to me from within me. I got further into the hall and I began to see a worn and aged red door. It was the end of the hall. For weeks I thought it was an exit, but like the illusion I was living in it to seemed to bend physics and stretch away from me.

It only began a craving in myself, it felt like a hunger I longed for, I needed to see what secrets fell behind it. Alas, I could never attain such a thing, and through deductive reasoning I started opening doors. I waited a few nights before I started peeking into the rooms, deciding which side I should peer into first. Did the color of the door matter, or the hue of the cross count for anything. I started with the red doors with the black crosses. My hand slowly reached out for the knob in a state of anxious hope and wonder. I took ahold of the doorknob and as my skin made contact I could feel something familiar pulsate within as if it were always there.

Within a moment the door quietly creaked open from ajar to as wide as could be. A bright light broke the veil and revealed a room I had never seen, a man was in the room playing guitar alone. He seemed at peace yet a slight sigh of sadness cascaded down from his eyes to his mouth. The music was inspiring, the room itself was blue and blurred, like a smoke screen overwhelming everything but him. I took my first step into the room, I checked the door and it did not shut on me but stayed open. I looked back into the room and the man was singing. Softly and deeply his voice was one I’d known...he was me, only older.

He smiled as he sang and his sadness melted away with each note that harmonized with the guitar. How can I see this, is this clairvoyance or is that just a creation of my subconscious through something I’ve always wanted. I spent my entire night watching him play, and write everlasting scribbles in a blue notebook. The edges were peeling and the pages had stains, but he was unbothered by this. I saw a spark of carelessness in his face. I felt as if this was going to be me.

I could smell the candles in the room, they were the smell of Autumn. Blissful ignorance washed over me. After some time he put the guitar down on his beige sofa stained by drinks and snacks and he stood up and smiled as he patted the body of the guitar. It let out sounds of joy and he vanished into the fog and I got up and wandered back into the hall. As I turned back around to see the room one last time the door was gone. A wall was now there, the room was as if it never existed. This produced thoughts in my head. A good thing cannot last, but it should be cherished. I woke up to the sun slipping into the cracks in my blinds and prepared for school.

The whole day was nothing but thoughts of the dream. I decided the black doors would be next. Oh, how my mind was rampant with wonder and worry all at the same time. Much like the coagulation of my blood my hopes were rushing.