The true dream. My home. A lake in permanent midnight with a crescent moon. Surrounded by identical trees, endlessly spanning as far as I could even begin to peer into. In front of me lies soft sand at the shoreline, which gives to a deep blue body. Silence broken by the ever-occasional breeze, accompanied by its ever adoring evergreens which answer the gust eagerly. All of which lay on display to present a single building, a small shed along the water’s edge. Inside lay weathered thread, pins, and notes. Photographs faded or torn, glue and tape to piece memories together, which I feared I may have lost. A worn journal stuffed with completed pieces. I'm always thankful to be here. I am alone but not lonely, for I cannot be hurt here. My home beyond reality.
This was my first reoccurring dream that I fully processed. The mother of all dreams. I love my notebook. Once perfect and empty only to be worn by love and detail; messily refined into endless imperfection. She's my guide to this world. I couldn't imagine a world without her.
"I was able to open the book. It was brief but I saw it! The pages felt real. I've always hated the feeling of paper but it felt different. It was like an old book, like the Stephen King novels I take from dad sometimes. The pages felt cold though. I wonder if I can put together the photos I found in it."