Recurring Dream

I’ve had this recurring dream for the last month and a half. 

I find myself on the foot of a small, dark, mountain, with hiking gear on my back. It’s completely dark, but simultaneously brighter than day. The sky is covered by billions upon billions of stars. So many that against the backdrop of the inky black sky, that the sky itself ceases to be seen. As I begin to climb I hear a hum. Waning and shifting and melting like wax, one beautiful chord to the next. The sound is all around me, reverberating through me.

As I continue to climb the hum gets louder, my load seems to get heavier and I can see my breath. Just as the sound gets so loud that I can’t bear it anymore, just as I am about to scream in pain, I find myself at the top of the mountain. The stars, which seemed against the sky before, are now just under my line of sight, bobbing up and down like the waters of the lake my family went to when I was a child, and as many as the sand upon a shore. They all slowly spin there as if hung by an invisible string and all shifting back and forth when there’s a particularly strong gust of wind like the grass did in my backyard when it got too tall. 

I realize the hum is coming from the stars themselves.

I reach out to grab a star and right as I do-

I wake up.

It’s always some unreasonable hour when I wake up, never before 1am and always before 5am. The hum plays in my ear for a couple minutes more as I open my blinds and look outside.

I see one lone star. Content to hang there in his solitude. He must have been the only star confident enough to outshine the city below.

I try to sleep but I rarely do. Instead I distract myself by scrolling through my phone until the sun rises.

When it finally does I look at my room, covered completely by things so that I can’t even see the floor.

I think again of the stars

During the day I walk around with my friend. I tell her that I want to run away, join a commercial fishing boat for a month, because maybe I could see the stars there.

She nods and tells me that I need space to think.

When I tell her about my dream she doesn’t try to interpret it like everyone else does. She simply nods.

I like that.

At the end of the day I come back to a messy room, a pile of unfinished laundry and an opened journal. The pages are blank. Just like they were yesterday, and the day before that. I acknowledge the layer of dust collecting on it and promise myself I’ll figure out my life.

And then I dream again.

I see the stars.

I don't know aht it means, but it's interesting