last night at dinner, we talked about dreams and how sometimes we know exactly where they came from, and i know this dream was a direct result of several thoughts floating in my mind recently--how to plant a tulip garden, it's that time of year, you know; the season premiere of felicity that i had just watched (yes, i got a sneak peek at the show, one week before it goes on the air); visions of original artwork, pine bookcases and yellow walls; the importance of creating an environment and my recent failure to do so.
i miss my own space. in so many ways the place i'm living is a dream, but it's the place i'm living--not My Place. my bedroom has just enough room for a bed, a dresser, two night tables and a small bookcase. my computer desk is in the living room, between the sliding door and the TV. the rest of my things are stuffed in corners and crevices throughout the apartment, not to mention the boxes piled up in my parents' garage.
it makes things difficult. there is no calendar on my wall to tell me what day it is. the only desk space i have is separated from the only shelf space. i have no room to make a mess--crawling in the space between my bed and stereo is not the same as sitting in the middle of a wide, empty floor--and when i do make a mess, i trip over everything, because there is nowhere to clear a path.
it's okay for now; it has to be okay for now. so i make do, and i dream (quite literally, it seems) of the home i will someday have for myself: hardwood floors, big windows, high ceilings, paper lanterns, art work space, tulip garden, and all.