This House is Not Your Home

I think my deep-brain might really be trying to tell me something. Just woke up from another dream of leaving: once again, I was in my old room in UP Campus, with the pale yellow walls and the window view; once again, I was packing my things in preparation for living somewhere else. That's at least the third time this week, and it's entirely possible I've had the dream every single night, since I usually forget sleep-dreams. (Although last night's dream was about my cat having a kitten. But maybe it was a chaser-dream or a double feature.)

Things I recall coming across in the dream: my Lola Cil's hardcover, first-print edition of Kerima Polotan's The Hand of the Enemy, which is the copy I read way back when I was in grade school; a drawer full of knickknacks that I wanted to save; and a huge transparent sack of junk food, that contained among other things at least twenty little bags of caramel popcorn and one large plastic bottle of "all natural" yet obviously artificially mass-produced orange juice.

It was this last item that got me to thinking -- I suppose hoping, really -- that this recurring dream might not be a premonition of my impending death. In the dream, there was no question that I intended to discard the sack of junk. Perhaps "moving house" is a metaphor for finally transforming my ailment-ridden body into one that's in better shape. After all, I saw my new doctor earlier for the second time in as many weeks and I think she's helping me. The mood of these dreams, though, is so bittersweet-bordering-on-outright-sadness. Which would make sense if they were death dreams. But why regret leaving a crappy house/ body for a better one? But then again I guess we can learn to love -- or at least be dependent on -- anything that's familiar, no matter how shitty it is. The shittiness you know is safer than the great unknown.

Here's hoping the dreams mean something good, anyway.