Monday morning

I dreamed was walking through a house, my home, giving a tour to some friends who had never seen it before. It was a big house with enormous rooms. I kept wondering what I was going to do with all that space and opening doors and being surprised by what was behind them.

“Oh, I’d completely forgotten about this,” I’d say to my guests. Most of the rooms were not fully furnished or “finished” in terms of decorating, as if I’d just moved in recently and only roughly set things up.

There were doors that opened to stairwells, illuminated by colored spotlights. The house had at least three floors. There was a storage room with Christmas decorations scattered across the floor. Most of the rooms appeared to be part of a well kept, modern house, but others seemed they were part of an old, abandoned one. There was one room where a plaster wall bulged ominously and faded wallpaper clung to the walls.

The alarm woke me up, and I was drenched in sweat, as if I were having a nightmare.

Reflecting on the dream, I realize I am the House.

Unfinished and in a state of transition.

Bigger than I think I am.

Not fully explored or developed.

Old and falling apart in places.

My dark places illuminated by colored lights.

My doors open to friends.

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