Return home (a #dream)

A friend invited me to a party after she was told she could bring someone. Upon arrival the hostess gave me a warm welcome but seemed a bit surprised I hadn't come with a friend she expected instead of the one she brought me. 

Dozens of people where gathered in this small mansion-like house with no other houses for as far as the eye could see. There seemed to be a party going on in every single room and in every room I entered, people were very hospitable towards me and my friend. We partied, laughed, drank and danced until someone told us to join a group going outside.

The next scene was at a fair and most of us were dressed up by now, wearing all kinds of - mostly silly - costumes. Someone had borrowed me theirs. It was fluffy, yellow and had a hole in one of the pockets where I had kept some of my belonings while my regular clothes were still at the house.

It was all fun and games until I realised I had misplaced my house keys. My dream-me was convinced I hadn't lost them along the way but left them in the house and I started to turn and walk back until someone stopped me: "Don't you see the sun is setting and you'll be too late? The house is already on it's way back to one of the Dutch islands: Terschelling and won't be back for a while."

Shrugging I resigned myself to my fate, not knowing if I'd ever be able to return home.

The Snow (a #dream)

There was a rather old book about a journey and a search for a woman in that book. Or maybe the book was hers. Isis? The story was accompanied by music that touched me in a way that music had never touched me before. The book was also a CD or DVD but also a blank postcard. Without text but with a simple watercolor in faded colors on the front.

The thick book falls apart quite easily.

"Don't read!", warns the man. Who reads from it until his breath catches.

Thanks to the search for the woman in or of the book, disappearances are solved by a female detective. The rather large lady stands at the spot where the dead body of Isis (?) lies. Wrapped in plastic Albert Heijn shopping bags.

Whoever murdered her placed her on top of a freshly dug grave at a small, modern cemetery. Now she can be buried. By a select group. Including a young teenage lady who pays her respects by performing a self-invented ritual.

I leave. With a woman. A man on a moped wearing a simple white helmet leaves the old wooden barn where the story was told.

Meanwhile, it is early morning and it has started to snow.

I leave.

In my socks through the snow.