With My Head Against a Pillow, I Concoct the Strangest of Worlds

I had a dream the other night where I was in a strange house, though it seemed vaguely familiar, like there were pieces of it that made me think it was mine. All along this long, long hallway, there were ladders - and no ceilings. In order to progress down this hallway, and there was only one route, you had to climb up each ladder and then climb back down the other side. As I was waiting in line to do this, I was wondering what was taking people so long once they reached the top. After all, dream minutes are very important. Who knew how long it would be before I would wake up and leave this strange world?

My turn finally came. A well-placed foot was planted on each rung, up and up and up, until I reached the top of what seemed to be an impossibly tall ladder. Once I climbed the summit and went to maneuver over to the other side to begin my descent, I realized why people had stopped. Up at the top, you were faced with a wooden wall - like the bare panelling of a house without that insulation that looks suspiciously like cotton candy. Speckled on this wall were pictures - pictures of you, pictures of your loved ones, pictures of your friends.

Memories that you forgotten you had, buried deep in the lost abysses of your brain; memories that were your favorites from when you were small; memories that didn't seem much like memories at all at the time - you know, those moments when you are simply living your life, another day-to-day miracle, where nothing spectacular happens, but damn it, it's special because you're still breathing; memories of moments that had not happened yet. All of these things, captured in photographs of all sizes, some in black and white and some in color. And every time a new person climbed the ladder, these photos would change to reflect their memories.

I went to reach for one of these photographs, but it began to melt as soon as my skin made contact. Maybe I had gained some acidic skin? - after all, this was a dream. Anything was possible. But I realized that I hadn't undergone some nifty transformation and wouldn't become the next superhero (Venom Girl would have been my name, by the way).

I realized that I couldn't take these memories with me because I had to let them go.

This hallway would always be here, always here to house and protect the memories I had collected over time, but that's all they were. They were to stay, glued to this wall, for reminiscing purposes only. I couldn't live in them. I couldn't pretend I was at that moment in time again. They had happened, and what wonderful memories they were. But that's all they were: memories.

After this realization, I sadly climbed my way back down this first ladder, then began to wait in line for the next. After a few moments of thinking, however, I realized that I didn't need to see all these photographs again. I needed to get out of this hallway and into my life. I somehow wriggled my way between the walls of the hallway and these abnormally tall ladders and to the front door, after the last ladder. It was beautiful outside.

I awoke as I opened the door. I had returned back to my life, hoping to see a few added photographs the next time I visited that strange, strange house.