Once again I am wandering about in the middle of the night in an old dilapidated mansion.

Dust is everywhere.

Cobwebs too.

There’s a musty smell.

It’s dark.

I am rummaging through books and luggage covered with thick layers of dust accumulated over the years.

My nose can’t take it anymore.

I wake up.

And the next night, the dream recurs.

Sometimes she’s there.

In a long, flowing white dress.

She’s striding slowly, moving from room to room, as if in slow motion.

I’m behind her.

From a distance, I see her back.

Her long black hair bouncing as she walks.

She doesn’t know I’m behind her.

She never turns around.

She’s graceful, moving like a fashion model.

She’s always ahead of me.

Moving with a sense of purpose.

Ahead of me – from room to room.

I can never catch up with her.

So far she has eluded me.

I wish she would turn around.

I so badly want her to turn around so that I can see her face and confirm that it is her.

Is it her?

Or is it someone else?

Someone who thinks she can replace her?

Someone who thinks she’s far more superior than anyone else?

I don’t know.

She never turns around.

She’s always striding ahead.

Maybe she’s looking for me?

If only she’ll turn around.

I am exasperated.

I wake up.

And the next night, the dream recurs.

I want to it to stop.

But the dream keeps coming back.

Coming back to haunt me.

Night after night after night.

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