Places Only Remembered In Dreams

1.

Sometimes I dream of a small building, perfectly square, made of cinderblocks painted azure blue. Inside is a dark space, meant for unknown purposes - unknown to me, that is - at least, there is never anyone around to explain. Sometimes I find things there. Printed pages of stories I can't remember writing. Pictures that disappear when I look too long. Messages from people I've never known.

I'd forgotten that this was a real place, a real building, anyway, until I happened upon it on my recent trip to Victoria. There it was, blue and inscrutable as ever, broadcasting no hint as to its use. I remembered then that back in those times of my restless night driving, it used to have a moon-shaped light at the door. 

2. 

Sometimes I dream of a place that is an impossible combination of English lowland and Gulf coast rice field, the glint of wetland reflecting the grey-grained sky. Ghostly egrets stalk like emissaries from other worlds. Clouds of murmurating starlings glimmer like white noise. Far away in the distance, I see the beacon blinking. I imagine the wisps of fog, the salt air at your windows, the warped wood at your door. 

Perception, Not Necessarily Truth

Days spent packing all my worldly goods into a storage space across town, the place seems like a home away from home. The rows of silent, sun-bleached buildings seem to mirror my internal loneliness. Occasionally the wind rattles a lock or a leaf, but otherwise there is nothing.

The sun is so bright it washes out everything. The blue paint is peeling. Little chips of blue flake off onto the concrete. I keep remembering the place as looking a little better than it does. If this is what my loneliness would look like, then it should look a little better. It's loneliness, but it doesn't feel so bad. At least among these silent rows, there is momentary peace.