I have a reoccurring dream of being alone in a dark room.
The room is pitch dark, but it’s the middle of the day, there’s a TV with bluish light, but it’s off and cable less. The windows are covered with sheets keeping all the light out, but a faint line of brightness coming under the door. There is a giant crimson velvet bed that has kind of a rounded edge, a feather comforter and pillow back headboard. I sit on the bed alone in a red cotton slip, shearing boots, and my hair in a half-up bouffant, with a sleep mask at its base pushed up on my forehead. By the side of the bed is a pile of brand-new counter culture books and glossy movies. On the other side is a room service tray of lobster and a punchbowl. I have no worries, nothing urgent to do. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t know what day it is, I have a friend who will call me in two months and wake me up. I could stay here in bed isolated forever. This place is completely cut-off from the world, even though it sits in the middle of the city, isolated in itself by anominity and by the height of the floor. I have a feeling that if I could find this place, I might be okay. Then I think I might finally feel safe, and right. If I had a few free months here, to rebuild, reform, I might get through this okay.
Like a cocoon. I’ll immerge with the perfect version of myself, and I’ll reform. I’ll call people back, answer letters, watch new TV, and find out about current events. And I’ll finally realize what the world is about, and if I really need other people to live, to stay sane.
