When I was a child, there were always crazy things, which my mind created, about a dream house. Though I know I most likely will never have my silly old house from my imagination, being that it’s the only one to have ever existed within the dreams throughout my memories, it is the one you will read about.
As a child, my imagination would take me to this place when I was scared or sought peace. I remember over grown grass, millions of undiscovered flowers, huge trees, and strange creatures lurking about; this yard might be illegal, but like I’d be the one to care. The sound of fluent water would run through the air, and the pitter patter of rain would echo from a distance. A place of emptiness, mystical creatures, and most importantly, adventure.
The house itself was built of large grey stones, up to the dark, yet colorful, sky. It was huge, I never planned on living in it, but rather spending hours searching for an adventure somewhere within. Hundreds of rooms, and even more windows, some broken, others complete. Creaking, wooden floors that were almost to old and rotten to talk on, some even in-caved. Levels and levels of mystery, waiting to be discovered in my own world, with my rules, and my imagination. The only place I could escape to when I was scared that someone else would hurt me or that someone else would pass on to another life. It was my freedom, my dream, and my creation.
This is quite surreal. I think its great. You imagining this house the way that you do is quite similar to how therapists first introduce their patients to meditation. They walk them through these different places that are all centered around the ideas of peace, protection and rejuvenation. I would like to rent out your dream house some day.