Lately, I sleep in fragments – two or three hours at a time, never enough to anchor the day. But when I do drift deep, the dreams come lucid, vivid, and unnervingly real. Waking from them feels like stepping into a foreign country. My home looks the same, but my body insists I belong somewhere else.
Last night was one of those dreams. It unfolded in fragments, blurred at the edges, yet heavy with meaning.
Commercials of Myself
It began with endless commercials – radio, television, the internet. A narrator’s voice repeated offers, always spelling out L-E-E-M-A-N. Sometimes it was “Email.Leemanism.” Sometimes a number. In dreams, I can see multiple things at once – overlapping truths that don’t blur, just coexist.
One scene took place on a cliff overlooking the ocean, the spokesman framed like a 90s music video. Then suddenly, it wasn’t just him. It was Albert, Jenny, their friends – all smiling, all orbiting me, as if the ad itself was about us. The narrator leaned toward the camera and urged, “Contact us now at L-E-E-M-A-N.”
I realized they weren’t advertising. They were calling me. Whispering, It’s time.
The Gathering
The commercials dissolved into a gathering – photographers, videographers, a sea of familiar faces. My brother. Patrick. Chloe. Amber. Even famous actors, casual and warm. Everyone gave me space to move, yet always acknowledged me, as if my presence carried quiet weight.
A woman touched my hand while telling me an old story about Lord of the Rings. It was fleeting, but the intimacy stayed. For once, I felt seen. Respected. Wanted.
The House and the Broken Family
Then I was back at my old townhouse, though three times larger, more like a Japanese villa with orange-lit gardens and water flowing outside the garage.
My dad appeared, uncharacteristically lecherous, smirking as a van of crop-top girls arrived. My mom looked exhausted, worn down. My brother lingered at my side, waiting for guidance. I avoided looking at the girls, ashamed of my father’s hunger, embarrassed by the scene.
The house was vast but hollow. We weren’t poor, yet it felt impoverished. My family stood together but fractured – like shadows in a room too big for us.
The River and the Cloak
Finally, I drifted into a quieter vision: a foggy river, a small longboat, a lantern glowing at the bow. I wore a cloak, hood drawn, and let the current carry me past a crumbling castle, through mists and ditches without destination. Just moving. Just existing.
The Return
Before waking, all the scenes collapsed into a jumble: the commercials, the gathering, the house, the river. And then I was back in my bed, phone glowing 2:34 a.m., Amber breathing beside me.
I sat there with a pit in my stomach – sadness, nostalgia, longing. My dreams have always felt like intuition disguised as story. They’re rarely literal, but they leave signals. Warnings. Invitations. Sometimes they are messages from “another me” in a place I can’t return to.
And when I wake, I can only whisper an apology to that other self:
I’m sorry. I can’t go home. Not yet.
