A beautiful, mysterious Victorian era home stands out among the rows of track homes. Hidden in plain view, it is my best kept secret in the neighborhood. It beckons me, pulling at my desire for thrill and incurable curiousity. I enter it's world in the dark of night protected by the privacy of my own mind. Each time I enter, a new experience awaits. This time, will it be:
A haunted home filled with rooms, secret passages, and cool, airy expanses. The lights are low, bathed in colors remeniscent of classic film noir. I am filled with wonder, and a twinge of fear, as I cautiously explore my surroundings. Ghostly beings silently go about their tasks, aware that I am with them, yet apparently indifferent.
A run-down orphanage with sullen children dressed in period attire. My heart aches as I see the sadness and sorrow on each face. I expect to hear the warm chatter of children's voices and laughter but I hear only the worn oak floors squeaking beneath my feet. How do I set these children free?
A surreal and wild party moving to the sound of throbbing music. Beautiful people mingling in candle lit, sultry dance halls and dining rooms. The scene is captivating and alluring. Excitement and pleasure surround me, yet it feels so superficial.
A series of narrow staircases and landings lined with scarlet velvet walls. The walls are covered with old photographs in classic frames. I have a sense that I should recognize these faces. I slowly walk down each flight of stairs, loss and dispair growing with each new flight of stairs.
A diamond in the rough. Paint is chipping, windows are broken, and antique fixtures are in desparate need of repair. With each step I am confident that this abandoned house will transform into a gorgeous monument to the era when architecture prided itself on beauty, rather than mass production. Sometimes it is an inheritence, other times an opportunity to buy. Each time brings hope, streaming sunshine, and joy.
An illusion. Just like the dream itself, I enter the house, explore, and finally leave, determined to come back. When I return, I eagerly walk up the street paying little heed to the monotonous track homes that pass by. As I reach the top of the hill, my everchanging house is gone. An overgrown city lot is all that remains. My search is in vain. All that I can do is wait for my house to once again beckon, for it won't be sought out.
Do you have dreams about houses? Check out this link for ideas on interpretation.
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