Dreaming

I don’t know if you’ve had that experience of dreaming about a place that you know well, and yet in your dream the place is different – you’re flying through the streets, and landmarks are not where they should be; whole streets have come and gone, and there is a carnival set up in the town square, and doors open to new secret rooms that are both terrible and delightful. I dreamt that way of London last night – I was walking from Piccadilly to the Palladium, or rather, I knew I was; but instead of Regent Street there was a long avenue with parkland in the middle and some sort of ancient monument at the end, rather like you’d see in Paris. Everything was a blushing gold, that pinkish shade you see on the face of buildings early in a sunset. I was not dreaming so much of London itself as of the way I feel about it. Big, and magical, and mysterious, full of unforeseen excitement. And, as always, Jonathan was just around the corner, I knew it. I was looking for him and I knew he was nearby. It is a very good and very rare night indeed when I look for Jonathan in my dreams and actually find him – that has happened only three or four times, perhaps, since our brokenness. But often, in my subconscious, I know that he is at least close, and there is something keeping us apart. When I wake up, I know it’s death, but in the dream, it seems to be only space, only lostness.