It was never the clutter of objects,
That we were meant to treasure.
I enter the musty room right in front of me. Everything looks moss bitten, like the people living here are not able to maintain it somehow. Or should i say were? Instinctively I open the sole wooden wadrobe to the right of the square window and reach for a fat leather bound Book kept at the bottom. I purposefully take it downstairs and settle into this pink plush chair beside the window. The chair seems like a new addition to the old decor.
Opening the book, I see unfamiliar faces with my own and I wonder are they really familiar or is this some sort of deja vu or more like deja savoir. I see that the the same house seems new in the pictures. There's a well maintained garden. There are pictures of me gardening, there are dogs in the background, pictures of me baking, pictures of parties. I look content, so happy.
There's a picture of an mid-aged couple, the woman looks like me, it must be me, with another man. He looks famliar and then just a few secondsin, the moment is gone and the unfamiliarity sets in. He is in many pictures but I don't know who is he.
I shut the book and get out of the chair. There is a mirror on he wall and I get a glimpse of a reflection, an old, frail reflection. I was looking at myself and before that could sink in, I woke up. No, not with a thud, just woke up like that is all I was meant to see.
Yes, that was a Dream. My day started with such occult feel to it (if that is even possible.) I started by reflecting upon the obvious questions, what was the point of the dream, why did I get such a dream, so on and so forth. But my mind later travelled to something more relevant- the scrap book of memories. I saw all the things that i would like to see in my future. There were pets, there was nature, the much needed isolation, there were friends, there was everything that I would ever want from life. But I wonder where did the city girl go? Or was that more of an old age abode?
Don't get me wrong, I do not consider my dream to be a message from the universe, or to be more than a mere dream. I'm just giving in to whirlwind of thoughts it raised in my feeble mind. I loved what I saw in those few seconds. I hope my Memory Book looks closer to the one I saw in the dream (however hazy it might seem.) It seemed like a pictorial documentation of my entire life with my favorite moments highlighted in my own way.
Would you invest your time and efforts in making a memory book? Would you like to step into the world of reminiscence by merely turning a page of a book? Do you ever wonder what would be the contents of it?
Or,
Would it all be a mere shout in the void?
