A house, abandoned and dilapidated to the point where it could be frightening to take a seat—much less lay down—anywhere, for the results of what seems like years of neglect my literally come crashing down at any moment. If there is rain, it is felt inside no different than outside. The only comfort comes from my own brain feeling an abandonment from the grip of my life’s normal obsessions—obsessions over making sure my life is not taking place in an environment anything like this one. I’m living in an abandoned house, for now.
This is my daydream, this is what makes up the best of my real dreams. This is the complete opposite of who I am, and for some reason, I am in love with this person I am in this state. But only in a dream.
I can’t honestly say if I actually want to experience this in real life, my dreams aren’t attached to real life. In my dreams, I can compartmentalize my OCD and toss it to the side as if it never existed. From there I can build out this connection to a community of people also living in this complete mess. I like these people because they are unlike myself in real life. I may like these people in real life, but… the disorder gets in the way, and I don’t seek such misadventure.
I imagine most everything is barely lit. This is important because I can focus just on the warm and fuzzy sensory exploration of very specific feelings about made-up situations involving myself being free to feel and think whatever I want. Anything I want. A true alternate universe. A universe without consequence because everything is already a mess.
I once lived like this, alone. I’ve stopped thinking about that time in my life. I’m fully absorbed—on purpose and not on purpose—with my brain’s OCD. That wasn’t a dream, back then. That was real. And my reality must always trend toward the order of ugly being ugly, and right and clean being right and clean.
I allow myself to dream, though.
These adventures I take in my mind have no endgame. It is only the singular feelings I focus on. A bond with a person who does not exist in real life. Playing with comfort and relativity—if everything around me is in horrendous shape, a simple mattress and old pillow are… comfort. Pure comfort, because.
This is just a dream. Of course, I have to wake from it. And then it is back to letting my OCD dictate anything potentially adventurous. Which is to say, living life with very little adventure.
All of real life is not bad, but it is a not a beautiful mess. There is no such thing in real life.
But when I go to bed, if my anxiety for the world has calmed down a bit… I can join my illusory friends in that dilapidated house.
And just be.