Some dreamers tell a story of their dreams, with a beginning, middle, and end. My dreams may appear at first to have that type of narrative, but after the context slips away, I'm left with a page in the middle of the book.
Last night I dreamed I was at my childhood house, and had to go inside. There was no urgency. I don't think anyone was inside. I was alone.
It was midday, and there was snow on the ground, of various depths where the snow had drifted. I approached from the left, trying to find the best path of entry. The house still had the full length porch along the front so I needed to gain access to that porch and it seemed the best way was to approach from that side, where there was more sunlight and where the snow seemed to have melted a little.
I tried one area that looked promising, but the snow was deeper than I had thought. I tried another path way and then another and another, but the snow was too deep. I stopped, thinking how I could get through to the house. And then the solution came to me. All I had to do was follow the footsteps from when I'd left the house. The footprints were lightly covered with snow, and facing in the opposite direction but all I had to do was step into them and my path would be possible. I put my foot into the first footprint and my feet turned ice-cold. So cold that I woke up.
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