...and it is a city that does not exist. It is not the city where I live, though sometimes it is where I live in my dreams. It is not New York. It is not San Diego. It's more like San Francisco, but it is not there either. It is not any city in the real world, but when I woke up today I realized this truth about it: it is the same city every time.
I've never been to the same place twice in this city, this city of my dreams, but I am sure it's the same city nonetheless. I know because each time I dream of it, of being in it, I can feel the shape of it in my mind. Each time I've been lost in a different part of the city, a new part, but I've always known where I was relative to the parts I'd been lost in before. This road leads to the stadium. I walked back and forth on it one afternoon for several hours looking for my friends. Down that way is a hill dotted with large houses and secret, winding, wooded paths leading down to the river where I once became lost while chasing (or was it running from) someone else. This entrance leads to a complicated section of on and off ramps, where I've driven in circles trying to find the right highway.
The City is vast. It is peaceful, passive, yet it in passivity is held a certain fear-- that I could loose myself forever in this sleeping city, never to return from my dreams, and the city would slumber on unaware. This is the city of my dreams.
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2 comments:
That's interesting. I've been to that city too.
You've been to the city that lives in my head?
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