Last night, I dreamt of my house.
When I dream, I frequently find myself living in this particular house. It’s a two-story Victorian with pale yellow siding.
I live on the first floor, with its living room and kitchen and bedrooms in the back, and I barely ever think of the second floor. In the dream, I need something or want something on the second floor, or I have to escape from something horrible downstairs, so I go up.
The upstairs is lovely: large rooms, nicely furnished with couches and chairs. It’s messy, but that’s okay. I search through a sitting room, a side bedroom I’ve converted into storage, and I think a few other rooms.
I never find what I’m looking for.