The dream is of an open space, or a place, or somewhere far away. A beach, perhaps. A meadow. An elevator that does not move. A restaurant with tables set, facing an empty street. Whatever it is, or wherever, there is one thing that is certain. You are alone. No people. No faces, no masks, no words or smiles or rituals to fall into. These steps are yours alone. This place is yours.
All your life there have been people. Always people. Always the smiles, the company, the expectations, the rituals of life. Everything that falls into place, because there is always someone watching, someone to play for, to dance for.
There is noone here. A bit of wind that tickles and stirs the fields. The waves that lick the shore. The silence in the leaves. Only silence... and freedom.
It is overwhelming.
You sit in the grass, by that shore, in the center of the shaft, at a table set for two. These motions you repeat. An acceptance of the space. An exploration of an empty world, with no mirrors and no masks. No pain. No loss. Nothing staring back.
Space and comfort.
Sometimes there is motion amidst the silence. Leaves that fall. Clouds that drift. A door that opens.
The space is always the same. Tablecloths folded. Mountains fading into the distance. Trees all around. Bones in the earth. A figure in the other chair, silent and still. A play of shadows across a wall. Ash falling, soft and silent.
It feels like coming home.