I dreamt about you last night. It was chaotic and, for some unknown reason, the ghost of Emily Brontë was there, too.

The air was cold and it was snowing. And I remember thinking that I must have come into the wrong dream because I wasn’t dressed for the weather, as all I had were a black rayon dress and a pair of Docs. I was freezing cold and shivering violently. But I tried to keep walking anyway, thinking the cold would just go away if I kept going. Alas, every step I took, it only got colder and colder. But then again, I knew it was only a dream and I wasn’t gonna have a dying character moment in a movie I’d only seen a couple of minutes of. Plus, I’d always wanted to see snow, so might as well enjoy my time there.

After walking for what felt like an eternity in the winter cold, I noticed nothing but a person in the distance, sitting on top of a car. I walked closer, and then there was you. Relief rushed over me for some reason. You slid off of the car's hood onto the ground as I lumbered towards the car, breathing in the frigid air. Somehow, it stopped snowing as quickly as it had begun, and the sun came out of the thick, white clouds.

I asked you whether I was in your dream or was it the other way around, but you, too, had no idea. However, you knew that I’ve been ruminating about my relationship with the unknown, that I felt pulverised, and that I felt like I was too old to start anew, to learn how to play instruments, to start drawing again, and the list went on. I was overwhelmed by how much you knew, especially given the fact that I hadn’t said anything about anything (apparently even in my dreaming, I’m still processing a hell of a lot quietly). You just shrugged your shoulders and said, “There’s this tree where you can see the world from the top, and duck down and go inside to hide. I’m sure you’ll find yourself quite at home there.” I looked at you confused and you told me that sometimes I need to step back in order to notice the good things that are happening around me, before deciding to move forward. And before you could finish whatever it was you had to say, the ghost of Emily Brontë appeared and waved for us to follow her to the tree.

You ran swiftly in the direction of the tree without looking back. Then the next thing I knew, I heard Justin Vernon’s voice echo through my ears, “I’m not sinking - I’m not synching.” And there I was, jolted awake by “21 M♢♢N WATER” after falling asleep with my EarPods on.