For years, probably since my early twenties, my dreams have featured a recurring motif - that of the haunted house. There's a main house that's nice enough but one of the doors inside always leads to a secret wing that's both scary and neglected. Sometimes these can go on for miles. Many of the doors in the wing are closed and on no account do I want to open them. I rarely venture very far and try to make sure I know my escape route if I do go more than a few steps inside. Sometimes there are voices that taunt me or call to me, other times there are sinister noises from overhead, but always there is a weight in the air, a weight so heavy and laden with ominous portent that I'm almost certain I'm going to be smothered by it. These can be gut clenchingly frightening, wake-up-gasping, chest-clutching dreams.
And I know what they're about.
Fear of opportunities, of possibilities, of living my life.
Well, the haunted house featured again last night - only this time all but one of the doors were open and the rooms had been decorated nicely. They were all airy and light, with nice bed linen and fresh flowers in vases. The closed door was a very tiny one in the ceiling. Mum and I didn't go up there because we wouldn't have fitted. We somehow knew there wasn't much up there of consequence. So we went down to the kitchen and made a nice cup of tea.
It was a good dream.
Today, I feel as free of fear as I have done for ... well, for most of my life. It's funny what one small step, something you think at the time is inconsequential and might mean nothing, can do for you. So, yes, I have written more poems today. Onwards!