But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life. I know this because I continue to have the same dream, over and over.
I'm in the other place, a place that's familiar to me, although I've never lived in it or even seen it except in this dream. Details vary -the space has many different rooms, mostly bare of furniture, some with only the sub-flooring- but it always contains the steep, narrow straiway of that distant apartment. Somewhere in it, I know -as I open door after door, walk through corridor after corridor- I'll come upon the gold mirror, and also the green satin bedspread, which has taken on a life of its own and is able to morph into cushions, or sofas, or armchairs, or even -once- a hammock.
It's always dusk, in this place; it's always a cool dank summer evening. This is where I'll have to live, I think in the dream. I'll have to be all by myself, forever. I've missed the life that was supposed to be mine. I've shut myself off from it. I don't love anyone. Somewhere, in one of the rooms I haven't yet entered, a small child is imprisoned. It isn't crying or wailing, it stays completely silent, but I can feel its presence there.
Then I wake up, and retrace the steps of my dream, and try to shake off the sad feeling it's left me with. Oh yes, the other place, I say to myself. That again. There was quite a lot of space in it, this time. It wasn't so bad.
Margaret Atwood,
Moral Disorder,
"The Other Place".
