I had a bad dream the other night. It was enough to jolt me out of bed at 1am, eyes wide with panic. But what struck me was the mental state that remained after I regained lucidity. I was swept over by a singular feeling — that I was alone in an unfamiliar small room, isolated, thousands of miles from safety.
In that moment and the minutes that followed, I was overcome by the strongest desire to escape. To run away, back home across the country. I felt entirely out of place. The building I live in became a wood and plaster shell, bereft of comfort and charm. My city, a lonely island enveloped in a fire-red fog out my window.
It took getting out of bed, popping on an episode of Comedy Bang Bang, and an hour to get back into a relaxed mood. I awoke at a reasonable hour in the morning, completely fine. Aside from it being a holiday weekend, life was normal. My studio regained its charm and its color.
I don’t know where this feeling came from. I shrugged it off in my consciousness, but… what if I’m doing something wrong with my life? There’s nothing in my life that is obviously creating anxiety, especially of this kind. What gives, brain?
I thought this needed jotting down for posterity, in the event it resurfaces. I hope it doesn’t.