Boarding Houses; Dreams vol. 1

When I was younger I thought I would hate living in a sorority, but now I'm not so sure. I often dream, and dream fondly, of women's boarding houses. Narrow bunk beds with all white sheets. A tidy cafeteria full of laughter. Memories that aren't quite mine are closer than hands and feet, and I'm merrier than I've ever been.

In these dreams I smoke cigarettes on the balcony and wear red-tinted glasses and eat chocolate cake with my hands at midnight. We gather around an island in the kitchen and share stories. Chatter. Icing gets under our fingernails and gathers at the corners of our mouths. We are almost feral, childish.

Our eyes glitter in the dark like mica in so much granite. I wonder: is this what it's like to be a pack of wolves gathered around a carcass? Or maybe we're more like bees. Never far from the hive. Falling asleep in shared flowers.

After a certain hour it becomes almost impossible to distinguish between us. We move through dim corridors in shadowy bliss. I never know any names, but every single face is familiar. Dark the way blue is dark. Smiling and secretive because we all carry the same secret caged down deep in our hearts: love hurts. Living here, like this, is our proxy.

Have you ever felt ravenous to stay somewhere? That's how these dreams make me feel. I wake up like a bee opening its eyes for the first time, warm in a cell of honey.