As you walked farther upstairs, there was this widespread, light bluish white-carpeted hallway with fluorescent-looking lights. It led into a giant entertainment room. An old box TV. A stereo system. A slot machine. Music. Cigarette smoke sometimes. Fantasy football drafts. My mom stepping up and down on her little workout thing. There was a bathroom across from that room, with a picture of some kind of feline. A leopard, a tiger, something like that. And then there was the upstairs door. I dreamed of it again. I’m back in the nightmare. I’m walking on the frames of the patio. I can see the ground beneath me. I know the risk, but I keep walking. Almost comfortably. But with fear. Where did the floor go? The wind is shuddering. Think of the height of a hurricane while you’re walking on a tough fucking tightrope. And people are offering you lunch. As if this is a normal activity. Like it’s just another workday. People are walking on the tightrope with you. Everyone’s going about their business. And there I am. Walking. Balancing. I don’t fall. There’s no drastic change. Just fear. Uncertainty. And then I realize I’ve walked outside into a dream. The rest of the house was real. I wake up. I think my life has been a tightrope. Not that I’ve been held to a standard more complicated than any other human being. I’m not saying my experience is any different from anyone else’s. I’m just saying the way I absorbed those experiences may have been a little different. My lens was solely based on the energies placed around me. Energy has always been my language. To a degree, I’ve felt good to be alive. And I wanted to know what I was walking to the end of the tightrope for. What was all that balance about? It had to be worth something. I observed the way my parents communicated with each other. With us. I observed a lot.
