I have this dream.
A waking dream. A daydream. A pretty little pipe dream. An awake-again-at-three-am dream. A keep fighting through, even though it's all so hard today dream.
A dream that appears in sleep. And stays after I open my eyes.
A heart dream.
In my dream I'm in a white room.
It's just a room, but still more.
It's my room. Within my house. Home.
The walls are smooth and bare.
The floorboards are pale wood, and worn.
White cotton curtains move gently in the breeze.
The windows are open and I smell salt. And sunshine.
I sit in the centre of a white bed.
On the floor, a stack of papers, sometimes the wind scatters them.
Sometimes, I catch at one.
They are blank, always, clean and unsoiled. Untouched.
Void of meaning and full of possibility.
I never move from the bed. I never stand, never move beyond the door. Never think to search for unfamiliar objects, listen for laughter, voices, footsteps.
I might not be alone. I wonder, half hope, for another?
But I will know when I need to, and not before.
It seems a strange dream, an odd hope, a mundane fantasy.
Simply a quiet room, in a house that is my own, shared with a maybe-someone.
On the very best days, this seems all I could ever want.
On a bad day, enough, this thing to work towards.
And on the very worst days, a comfort thought, a safe place, in which I, once more the crying child, may rest a while.
A home, security, a place from which I cannot be displaced.
Less, and more than I ever thought I'd have.
This modest castle-in-the-air.