I dreamt of home(s)(?)

Dreaming about my childhood bed, that one bed, his bed, and my new bed.

Hello, something a little more personal. While being cursed with insomnia this year, I can’t help but blame it on the various amounts of times I have moved and slept on different mattresses and beds. Here, I inconclusively reflect on comfort, the connotations of home, and walk you through some of the dreams I have been having.

---

I am so happy it feels like I have been cursed. The womb of sheets around me feel heavier as I wake up before my alarm. Still, I encase myself in the comfort of slumber until I hear the ring of the buzzer. I can feel myself slowly lift, heavy, cloudy with dreams of past homes.

Tonight, I was back in the one-story house I grew up in. The layout of something so familiar as the groundwork of my own body. It is so much smaller than I remember. My room, barely containing my mature figure. The years of thoughts and experiences are clustered within it. My body, usually cold, feels warm with familiarity. Not enough light, a fence for a view, and my adolescent broken heart. Running in after Maghrib, as my mum calls through the kitchen window, that girls can’t be outside when the sun goes down, my knees are grass-stained. The blue rug is swapping in between my room and my brother's, a silent acceptance of something that is rundown and shouldn’t be shown, but too much of an effort to part with. Dark wooden shelf, books of different genres. Reading Amy Tan and not understanding, mistaking confusion for boredom. A hall where I learnt for the first time to feel scared, avoid walking around in the night, darkness egging my imagination on, sinking into my bones.

Yesterday, I dreamt of Auckland City and its inhabitants. It is so hard to maintain a life. The burn of the flickering lamp at Albert Park, lost when it rained more than usual. The hiss of wind as it whipped through the cracked windows of the library. Why has it always felt so cold? Maybe someday I’ll miss Auckland, crawl back into my bed, and admire the 4 suitcases of stuff in my room. Instead, I find myself dreaming of my girls and of laughter and sharing, of intimacy that went beyond skin-deep and relaxing. I dream of the times when my shoulders felt less stiff. Remembering limbs one on top of the other and cramming ourselves on a couch that was made for only 2. Our skin, soft and scented, and our hair, drawing over each other. The rush of seeing dirty dishes and cleaning them immediately, while one of us shouts that we’ll do them later, and to gather around the TV for yet another music video. I remember growing to like white light, if it meant I could wear my favorite sweater and see my girl sleeping across from me. Battling wind and rain through our trek, just for the chance to roam through the record store and point out our favorite artists, but never buy anything. Togetherness. Knowing my day through everyone else. Bodies and bodies. Feeling seen.

Right now, I try to memorize the space I am in. I have allowed myself to feel comfortable. I have allowed myself to want to feel the comfort of my own room, of my bed, and my bedside table lamp. To see the view of my driveway. The poster hangs in front of our bed and the wall next to our new closet filled with mirrors, making our room look bigger than life. I can reach the kitchen easily, and I know where everything is because I put it there. I set the table, I brush the crumbs off the counter into the palm of my hand, safe from the floor. When I walk outside, I nod at new neighbors, and these people who have some share in my routine recognize my foreign face and smile. I become a regular at the bakery, receiving a cookie with a loaf of brioche raisin bread. I read books without wondering who is looking at me reading them. I write a paper, drink a beer alone, feel the edges of my vision fog slightly, and have fun on my own. This is fun. I am so fun. I already am familiar with the dull ache of leaving, so I enjoy the staying while it lasts.

Soon, I’ll be back in my house, the address that needs to be replaced on Chrome. I didn’t spend much time thinking about it. Maybe because I have spent so many years trying to leave, the act of leaving became second nature. When I was cleaning my closet in March, I found journals from when I was 16. Back when love used to walk me like a dog. The cover is green, and it is hardback. Guttural carvings. Some pages are torn out of frustration, some are blackened with ink. Tokyo Ghoul: re is coming out next year. Wow.

---

As always, thanks for supporting my writing. I can’t say it’s any good, but your reading means a lot. Subscribe to join my journey.

Follow my Instagram.

---