The Room Is Always There

There I was, back in a somewhat cozy bed. Dropped from a static dream that had encapsulated me for what felt like a lifetime. As my eyes and mind adjusted, the bricks began to come into focus and I couldn't help feeling part of me was still in the realm of sleep.

Is it really just our brains filtering through the day's events and creating some understanding of a nonsensical world? Messages from a great beyond? Or, are our nightly adventures an alternate timeline that we cross into when our eyes close? Maybe it's none of the above and these little deaths are just preparing us for the final one.

Life, ahhh. The human experience is such a strange game that we play when we really don’t know the rules. We think we know the rules. We have learned these rules of existence from our parents who learned it from theirs. But I can't help knowing, deep in me, that we, as a species are playing by the wrong rules.

I continued to reach for focus on the bricks that closely cradle my bed in this tiny New York City studio. As a well needed break from an unstable marriage and home life, I am subletting from a friend and nearing the end of a three month stay that brought me here for work. Tomorrow is my last day.

The room seemed darker than usual and the normally high ceiling hovered in turbulent fluctuation above me. I then noticed one of the bricks move. I blinked, rubbed my eyes and as I turned around, I saw it move again from my peripheral vision. Am I still dreaming? Shifting to a seated position, I planted my feet on the ground and stood up, blindly making the bed in one flip of the blanket. I leaned across the bed and cascaded my fingers over the brick which held strong to its ground. I must be going crazy.

I found myself walking down a well neon lit alley with faces I nearly recognized. I didn’t recall leaving the studio or how I even got here. Strong winds carried a haunting tune and pushed against my body with sumo wrestler strength. I could see drops of rain like star daggers aimed at me but never felt them land. I opened a door at the end of the alley which led me into my recurring nightmare. I was still dreaming.

Though the building's shape may change, its personality remains the same. In my youth, when it first appeared in my dreams, it was a ram shackled squat that I used to sneak into through a garbage filled garage for sanctuary. I always strived to reach the upper level only to find the Haunting Thing. As I got older the house shifted and changed as my personality and lifestyle did. It was once a great castle. That was a happier time in my life.

More often than not though, it has been an apartment building. The upstairs units were habitable but the downstairs, richly haunted. The deeper I walked into the building, the closer I came to the room that It inhabited and It pulled at my core.

But the house, that was the most frightening manifestation of it. In the pointed attic with its bare boned beauty and decadent candle lit altars, It reached into me and I succumbed helplessly. I was drawn to it as equally as I was repelled. I had little to say in Its language but It spoke to me with mountains of rage and grasped me with a knowing touch. fear.

I once woke up knowing the meaning of these dreams. I should’ve written it down. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I thought I would remember such a profound moment, profound meaning. But alas, I lost it in a blink. So I am doomed to repeat it, in these rooms, in these houses that haunt me.

I am lucid and walking up stairs away from the alley towards a room. I open the door or rather, walk through it. Along a deep wooden, wall sized bookshelf with curves and details, leather bound books fill its empty spaces. A matching chest of drawers adorn the adjacent wall. I am in front of it and pulling at the second drawer. Inside are two twig paper scrolls and I open one. As it unravels and falls to the floor like a waterfall from my hand, it rolls to the corner of the room pointing to something. I can feel darkness closing in behind me. I go to where I am being led and find a small black notebook tucked in a dark corner. I kneel down and pick it up and electricity charges through me as I touch it. Opening this book is harder than I anticipated. It feels like the pages are magnetically held to each other. The Darkness attaches to me and I’m in Its grasp and losing the fight. I don’t know why, but I can open the book now. Inside, in large wavering capital letters are the words “WAKE UP.” I remember I am dreaming.

I lay there for a long time trapped in between two worlds, unable to fully pull myself from the book filled room into the brick one. Like a battle out of my control, only won by time.

“Wake up, Wake up, WAKE UP.” I feel these words are speaking a greater message.

I got up, got dressed and caught a cab to my temporary place of business. I skipped my last day of work as it was merely a formality and walked to the main office to request my pay. As previously agreed, they wrote me a check for twenty thousand dollars. As I folded the oversized check and tucked it into my wallet, I gave a farewell nod and walked out the door.

It was time for a drink. Two blocks away was a tavern that felt as old as the city, born with the city. Its walls whispered stories of an immigrant nation in its many tongues. I walked over to the corner booth and placed my stout on the uneven table. It was dark and hidden and felt like a welcoming and safe cave. As I slid into my usual seat, I nearly crashed into a small old man who blended into the patterned cushions. He didn’t seem to be phased at this collision.

“I’ve been waiting for you” he said. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place his likeness. No matter. “How do you know me sir” I asked. “Ahh well, you are my younger self.” He’s just another mad pickled old man, I thought. And as if reading my mind, he said, “Well son, what I mean to say, is that I see myself in you.”

The old man began talking about the good ol’ days with his wife. She had been a beauty. The kind of beauty that men pinned on their lockers or unfolded from their billfold. They had eloped and traveled the world together. He had been a fairly successful musician, and she a dancer and writer. They had settled in France after the war and had a humble but comfortable apartment by the Seine River in Paris.

As their life slowly became stagnant, he began trading his time at home for the various jazz clubs nearby. Then one day after a three day vanishing act, he went home. His wife was gone and he never saw her again.

She left a note. “I love you but I need to live with love, not always waiting for it. WAKE UP or you will always be alone.

As he told me his story, I couldn’t help see the similarities in my own life. I love my wife, I do. I just can’t be bottled up in these domestic mundane rituals that we have fallen into. We had a brilliant life together once. Can we find it again?

The old man finished his drink and put the foamy remnants of his stout on the table and stood up. “I wish you the best young man, love is rare.” he said. I sat there with my head bent down staring through my pants into that old house that haunts me. Why do I dream it and why do I dream it when I dream it? I thought about the man’s story and my recurring nightmare and it came to me, the meaning that I needed.

The house is me in all my manifestations. The Dark Thing is all that holds me back. My fear, my anger, the feeling that I am not good enough. The fear that I am not living my potential. These dreams, this house, was a gift that had been given to me and I would not throw this gift away.

It was time to go home.