The day started in wonderland. I was walking through a sort of tunnel in a forest, bridged over by great trees -- 60, 70 feet tall and at least 200 feet around. Huge, bulging roots lined the trail, begging me to continue forward. Birds of a hundred colors flitted high above my head, bees swarmed around the flowers at my feet. My bare feet. I could see the brown, healthy dirt caked on up to my ankles, in the spaces between my toes, in my toenails. Bright colors burst from every corner of the frustratingly tiny amount of space my two perfect eyes could take in at one time. The greenest greens, bluest blues, reddest reds. But then -- the whole scene exploded to orange and yellow -- the trees, the birds, the flowers were suddenly engulfed in a fire. I watched in horror as my utopia burned to the ground, not feeling the flames licking my feet or smelling the smoke waft to my face. I knew I was shrieking, cursing, but couldn't hear my screams. I didn't want to close my eyes (I knew what was coming) but finally the accumulation of tears overcame my will to keep this world alive and I blinked...
I woke up. A disappointment so strong I didn't think it would ever pass, replaced the so-recent feeling of elation brought with the dream. I welcomed this familiar feeling every morning. Afterall, I couldn't have the dreams without the disappointment afterward.
A swipe of my hand and the covers fell from my body to the floor. After several unsuccessful attempts, sat up then lifted myself from the bed. I dry-swallowed two pills to prevent my unpreventable case of depression and fulfilled my morning routine.
After dressing and cleaning my teeth, I closed my apartment door (I never bothered to lock it) and continued down the hallway of the Castle Apartments -- to which I called home for 53 years. Me moving would be a hassle. And as the apartment building was going nowhere, it looked as though I was stuck in room 783 until death claimed me.
The damp hallway carpet sank under my shoes and smelled old. 57 steps later, my feet reached the first of the many stairs I traveled down everyday. The elevator broke 27 years ago. My feet carried me down 168 stairs to the first floor. I walked out the front door and took the 24 steps to a newspaper stand outside the apartments. Four quarters and three dimes bought me a daily paper. I only ever paid in change -- the sizes were easier to distinguish than dollar bills. The paper was for my cat, Felix. The years were catching up to his bladder and I'd become tired of scolding him whenever I slipped in or smelled his urine. I turned, took 24 steps back into the apartment building, walked up 168 evenly spaced stairs, paced 57 steps more and returned to room 783.
Felix cuddled against my leg as I opened the apartment door. I spread the newspaper around the house, almost randomly. I settled down in my recliner, listening to the sweet sounds of my favorite morning radio station.
Home again, home again.
