There's a first floor apartment in a long gray building that stretches on, seemingly for miles. The walk way up to the front door is lined with the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, bold and bright, a dizzying array of colors so perfect, it hurts my eyes to look at them. I reach the front door, always, always, searching for the correct key to put in the lock. In wrought iron, off to the left of the red door, in a scrolling print, it says 'Unit 9'. When I finally find the correct key, I open the door to a beautifully decorated apartment that smells like clean laundry and feels a lot like home. The emotions are always the same, its a welcoming, coupled with guilt that I haven't been here for so long, and a need to hurry and get back out again.
I am always searching for something. Sometimes an item of clothing, sometimes an errant car seat, once, a framed picture of my mother and father. Though, I've never had any idea of what item I am looking for until I happen across it.
There's a vibrant, extra long, indigo colored couch along one wall, and every time I visit this place, I have a need to stretch out upon it and take in my surroundings, but I fight against it and have never even sat upon that glorious piece of furniture. It's usually at this point that I have an impending sense of urgency, and I rush off past a wall of shelves that contain a truly staggering number of books and pictures and, oddly, a jewelry box that is ALWAYS open, the ballerina forever dancing to some tune that I don't recognize.
I take a right, past the shelves and enter the bathroom, it's spacious, and it's the only room in this place that the decor ever changes from visit to visit. I always move the shower curtain to the side, checking for something behind it, but I have never seen anything there.
Exiting the bathroom, I move to the right, once again, and suddenly am surrounded by every shade of purple I've ever seen. There's a bed, and a beautiful, gleaming, eight drawer dresser, but I have never made any effort of move towards them, I head straight for the closet door in front of me. When I open it, I leave the neat and orderly behind me, and move into chaos. Things are strewn about, piled and tossed carelessly around. It's mayhem. I know, with whatever powers I possess, that whatever I am looking for is in this place. It's huge. Bigger than all of the other rooms in the apartment, combined. I'm not scared. I'm resigned, and I always take a deep breath and feel overwhelmed but determined and I start my search.
While I don't have a concept of what it is that I am pursuing, I know that I will find it, that I will move a box, dig into a pile of discarded clothing, push aside a chair or an empty shelf and, there it will be, waiting to be plucked out of oblivion. I have such a feeling of elation when I finally find it. Then a moment passes, and I'm stuck with an almost crippling sadness because possessing this item means that I have to leave this place. I have a desperate need to turn to someone for comfort, but I am always alone here. If I've come with anyone, I've long since left them behind. I pull myself to my feet and dry my tears and take a long look around at the disorder that surrounds me on every side, and I turn and walk back to the door, but I always stop and follow the wall to the right. There's a staircase hidden in the corner. Whatever lies at the bottom of those stairs has never managed to lure me to attempt descend them. I stand at the top, staring down at darkness, and it seems like a lifetime passes. Then, I simply turn back, back through the purple room, polished and pretty, back into the living room and always, I take a second look at that magnificent indigo couch and promise myself, "Next time", and I leave with a click of the lock to whatever waits on the outside.
This place, this dream, it's my sanctuary. It's a gift to visit, but I never, ever, not once, look back on my way out the door.
