deviant art @s-rae, Dreaming a Dream: Night

There is a place that repeatedly appears in my dreams. Like any other usual dream, I always forgot about that and recognise the place only when it, yet again, is the background of my dream afterwards.

This time, it was not the usual members – one of them were replaced by someone else and I knew that face, but I can’t recall who it was anymore. (This happens a lot with the dreams, too.) Judging by the scenery, we were most probably in Hong Kong as tourists.

Before we got to the place, we took a walk in the city. It was a bizarre walking, too, for most of the time we were talking the middle of the road and not the pavement. At one point, for some reason, we stumbled and were almost hit by a massive MAN truck. That’s when the background switched onto a footbridge. From the footbridge we entered this little street, hoping that it would lead us somewhere but it instead turned out to be a dead end. Naturally, we turned back and started to walk back to the other end of the street. We were probably too caught up by the stores on the right hand side to see all kinds of insects and worms on the street, which we managed to discover on our way back. They made me jump, put my hood on and run like a madman(I’m not sure whether it was all of us or just me.)

Trying to shake off the weird feelings, we walked on and got to this place in question. The building was in my dreams three or four times including today.

I think I never saw the building from outside, but it must be massive. It’s like a museum. All walls are painted white and the lights are dim – dim lit in the ill-maintained way. There are rooms with huge windows, displaying different stuff and the staff would occasionally appear out of nowhere and scare people. Halloween themed? I’m not sure. There also are drawers with watercolours, crayons, coloured pencils and so on in them. I’m not quite sure what I want, but I always end up opening all the drawers and inspecting what’s in them and not finding what I want. When I’m browsing through the things, I feel some kind of guilt – it feels like I’m doing something that I’m not allowed or supposed to do, even though I understand that they are for visitors to make use of.

So I gave up on it, and some staff who slightly resembled Ethan Hawke grabbed me by the side of my face and started to say something in French. I guess it was supposed to make me go all “awwww..” or something, but instead I answered in broken French that I don’t get it. The man went over to one of my friends, who in real life does not speak French either, and I thought to myself that I should learn the language. The white walls, wooden floor and a few stools in the hall was the last thing I remember seeing before I woke up.


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