The daunting middle ground between dreams and deja vu


Kurt Race

A dark and somewhat unsettling picture of a pine tree during a snowfall.

I’ve been here before. 

The cold weather is stabbing my face violently. Little dainty snowflakes lay across my long caramel hair while my eyes start to water. My hair’s dampened waves are stuck to my temples, but only in my peripheral vision can I see it. The tip of my aquiline nose reddened as the cold kept hitting me. 

Have I been here before? 

But my beat-up and busted black Vans are no longer dry and warm. They now are a freezer for my feet—the sopping wet slush seeped through the canvas and into my socks. The legs of my flowy denim are glued to my calves—I hate the feeling of denim, cold and wet or warm and dry. One of the cuffs had fallen loose, acting as a highway for water to ride up my leg. 

No, I have definitely been here before. 

I see a house at the corner of the road. Dark, like always. Not a car in the driveway or a window curtain open. The only sign of life were the weeds growing in the cracks of the broken pavement, but even they looked deprived. Over the years, the house turned a dirty shade of white due to the poor upkeep. By the front porch, there was a rock. The rock had words carved into it, but the moss had grown so thick in between the letters that it was no longer visible.

Why does it look so familiar? 

It is, to me, one of the wonders of the world. Who lives here? Why is there no life? Does this house still have an owner? 

Such a simple couple, but the home’s complexity taints my point of view. ”

I imagine an elderly couple living there, not super old, but maybe early to late sixties. They’re married with no children or pets. They have grown old and grey together, peacefully. She does the laundry and cooks the meals, while he cleans and pays the bills. Such a simple couple, but the home’s complexity taints my point of view. 

Have I seen something like this in a movie? 

No. The home stands alone on the lot while the snowflakes fall gently onto the cracked pavement. The midnight sky made the stars twinkle with vibrance and the moon shine the brightest light, but the house remained quiet and mysterious. 

Is this deja vu? 

I don’t approach the house—it’s cunning and mysterious vibes and unknowns were potent enough to keep my mind free of thoughts. 

I am now staring up at this house, in the snow, soaking wet and cold. 

Was this all a dream?