I walk into my
old house, and hear my parents having
sex upstairs. I'm slightly
grossed out, but not nearly as much as I would be in reality, which is
curious. I walk through the
garage, and into the downstairs, the sex doesn't
stop, as I expect it to, I yell upstairs "I'm home
!" or the like.
Nothing, it goes on.
I follow the
hallway, which is
much older than it should be, when we moved into the house it was new, and we moved out of it only 4
years ago. The
carpet is worn, the walls are scuffed and
darkened as if by
smoke. I go into my old room which, I noticed, is now nothing like how it was when we moved out, or anything like my current room. On the
contrary, the room did not seem
foreign to me, but comfortable, it
definitely was
my room. I sit on my bed (which has a
frame, unlike any bed I've ever owned. I begin writing in a small
spiral bound
notebook, even though I
hate spiral
bounds because they always
fall apart, and I make a point to get any other kind of notebook.
Anyhow, I
start to write about the
sex noises upstairs, and I notice that my
handwriting is in
cursive. I
hate cursive, almost as much as I
hate spiral
notebooks. I
never got the hang of cursive writing, and never
wrotein cursive, however I did then, and it was
normal I mean, it wasn't unusual to me that I was writing that
say.
I'm not sure what this dream meant, but it was very disassociative. Like, my house was unlike it was when I lived there, my
bed was not like mine, my room
wasn't like mine, and my writing
wasn't mine, but it
seemed like
mine.