I dreamed an ancient dream, and I know I will dream it again.
I dreamed of the house where I grew up and of the man who built it — a man who, as a child, fled Nazi Germany for a new land, where he grew up and became an architect. He designed his own house, a mysterious place. To a child, he was a strange man: quiet, reserved, yet in some way, protective. Long before I was born, this house already existed, but over time, it became a forsaken place.
Today, that house is gone, yet it still returns in my dreams. To a child, it was a house full of mysteries — many floors, a courtyard that could have been a movie scenario. Years ago, I dreamed that this house filled with water and a young woman drowned in its ruins. A year ago, a great flood swept through that place, carrying away what little remained.
But there is one place I always return to: the old man’s office. Full of antiquated tools for hand-drawn architectural blueprints and many books. As a child, those materials fascinated me, and now, when I fall asleep, I find myself there again — sifting through old drafting supplies, but above all, trying to save the books that perished in that house.
Now, I study to become an artist. Some days, I wonder how much of my childhood curiosity about those architect’s tools led me to where I am today — and whether that old man would have approved of the path I’ve chosen. Time and again, I return to his office in my dreams, still exploring a place that no longer exists.
In these dreams, I was always alone.
But a few nights ago, when I dreamed of the old office again, the man was there — painting in watercolors.
This man, for a time, was married to my grandmother. He was a difficult person in life and died alone. I was still young then and never got to say goodbye to the man who, in a way, also helped to raise me.
Now, I think that when I visit the house in my dreams, I visit him too — even if I’ve only dreamed of his presence once. Somewhere deep inside me, I believe that revisiting the house breathes life back into it. That house was everything to him, and perhaps, by dreaming of it, I am also feeding the old man's lost soul.
Somewhere within me, I like to think that seeing him in his office, painting watercolors, means I reached him in some way. In death, the spirit of a regretful man, bound to the material world, might finally heal through the curiosity of a child who's the only one that still returns to his old home.
[english isnt my first language, so im sorry for any writing error]
