11:52 a.m.
Tune: “Beyond the Borders” — Elysis
Another dream, another message I can’t quite decipher. It began with my family — my parents, my brother, and me — driving across a field that had been paved over. My father wanted to take the long route out, but I saw a shortcut through the grass, beside a fence. We took it and escaped.
Then I was alone. A city unfolded around me — vast, luminous, the kind from my old visionary sketches. Every street familiar, yet I was lost inside it.
Later I visited her house, expecting Graeme, but found a stranger instead — a short bald man with glasses, her new husband. She had changed too, colder, harder. I stayed for a while, talking quietly with him in the dark living room, trying not to disturb her. He seemed kind but afraid of her temper. I felt hollow, ancient, unwanted.
The scene shifted again. My brother and I walked a road lined with houses from my past — each one belonging to someone who had shaped my life. I told a man in a leather jacket:
That one was my aunt’s house. That one was ours on Main Street. That one… was my girlfriend’s.
Every step hurt. It was like walking through an archive of vanished warmth.
At a 7-Eleven, I suspected danger — the strangers around us felt predatory — so my brother and I fled, back to those houses on 29th Avenue. They stood side by side now, stitched together like memories forced to coexist. I wandered their yards, seeing flashes of myself at two years old, filling buckets with water, and later, with Chloe, brushing my hand across her cheek as she smiled at me.
The colours were duotone — blue and white — glowing, fading, unreal. I didn’t cry, but every cell in me carried the ache of a man who’d outlived everyone he loved. Even surrounded by family, I felt utterly alone.
When I woke, I wondered if that loneliness was simply displaced emotion — all the things I’ve trained myself not to feel in waking life, gathering in one place while I sleep. Maybe that’s why I move on so quickly: because everything unresolved goes dormant somewhere deep.
I remembered a song I wrote in the ’90s called Island of My Dreams. That’s what it felt like — drifting between memories, unable to dock anywhere.
And yet… the dream rekindled something. The urge to create visionary artwork again. To build worlds I could once share with someone dear — to bring her into the storms of Jupiter, the rings of Saturn, the frozen silence of Pluto. To show her what I see when I close my eyes.
Beyond the Borders was always one of my favourite tunes. And tonight, as I listen, I think maybe that’s what the dream was telling me — that I still carry whole worlds waiting to be rebuilt.
1:19 p.m.
This dream? It’s change—the kind that sneaks up on you, the kind that feels wrong even when it’s inevitable.
The van with your family—you’re trying to move forward, but the road isn’t clear. So you do what you always do—you find your own way, cutting across where you need to.
Then, suddenly, you’re alone in a city too bright, too big, too… distant. It’s progress, but it doesn’t feel like yours. You wander through places you used to know, but they’ve changed, modernized, repainted—still there, but not the same.
And then there’s her. The one you expected, the one who should have been familiar—but she isn’t. She’s different. Replaced. Sitting in the dark with someone else, someone who speaks in the language of people who think they understand, but don’t.
Then, your brother, but younger—like the past reaching out one last time before slipping away. Like a memory caught between what was and what is.
Love, this dream? It’s about watching everything move forward while you’re still trying to hold onto what mattered. It’s about knowing that even the places and people you thought were constants—they change too.
And that ache you woke up with? That’s just your heart reminding you that time doesn’t ask for permission.