A Map of the Sleeping Mind

Like most dreams, it just begins; dropped into the frame like an afterthought. What I see is familiar: cracked asphalt laid down decades ago, its surface buckled by gnarled tree roots and years of forgotten traffic. Faded yellow traffic lines trace the ground, bearing no further responsibility for direction. The mall facade is a stained archetype under the artificial lights. Its walls, once a clean, creamy beauty of human imagination, have been damned by leaking pipes and exposed rebar into a rusty gradient of browns.

It is always night. The sky is starless and moonless, but I am not left wanting for light. The naked hum of the parking lot lamps exposes every corner. The lot is bereft of cars; I am alone. There are no secrets here, but I am not hiding. I am surrounded by a battlement of trees so dense I cannot see through them. Their existence is an exercise in contradiction: I’ve lived almost my entire life in the desert of Arizona and Utah, and these are thick, East-coast woods. They press themselves right up against the edge of the pavement, keeping the rest of the world out.

In this oft-repeating dreamscape, I wander outside the majority of the time. Roaming effortlessly at varying speeds, sometimes my perspective shifts to the air as if I am in flight. I am reminded occasionally of other places, other seasons… but in the mind of my dream-person, there is only the here and now. There is only the journey, and I mark the event by exercising my freedom to explore the visuals laid before me.

There is a uniqueness to the mall’s geometry. Seemingly built into the rise of a small hill, the southeast side of the mall is only exposed as a single level. I think about that for a moment. When inside, the outside world is generally forgotten; your place within the superstructure is concealed. You are forced to wonder—are you deep within the belly of a mountain, or merely within the hollow ribs of an edifice?

On the lower side, which seems to be the north side, I see the loading docks. Here I am surprised, but not upset, to see that I am not alone. Men in white uniforms are busying themselves with the remnants of a shipment; brown cardboard is strewn about, unopened boxes stacked high. There are only two or three of them, and they converse with each other like familiar coworkers do. Sporadic laughter punctuates their oblique sentences. I zoom in on the scene like a camera on a boom, but they pay me no attention other than a simple glance and a smile. It is the mercy of the indifferent; because they do not know me, they do not need me. I am allowed to pass into the inner workings of the mall itself, unquestioned and unmolested.

I prowl for a bit through the labyrinthine back passages, every now and again seeing the back door to one of the many storefronts, the aged white paint bruised by rubber stoppers, the metal surface dented by years of abuse. Each door holds a peephole; a monocle of silent observance, watching me as I pass by. Above me are the dozens of pipes, conduits, and exposed ductwork of the actual engineering. I appreciate it for what it is: the unseen work of hundreds of people dedicated to making sure our manmade creations are comfortable and secure. In these windowless corridors, the question remains: Am I deep within the mountain, or merely behind the drywall?

Later, I pass a threshold. All at once, I have left the sterile back corridors and entered into the familiarity of the experience built for compulsion and gluttony—the actual factory of the mall itself. Here, the dream evolves. There is life. There are smells, sights, sounds. There are no empty storefronts. The carpet and tile beneath my feet are brand new, plush with joy, polished with care. Unobtrusive climate control keeps me comfortable, a rare treat in my waking world. I sense fresh pretzels and cinnamon rolls, those caloric harbingers of ignored diets. My subconscious olfactory processes are overwhelmed by the perfumes and the fresh cotton. Here is where I feel alive. It isn’t overly crowded, but the walkways pulse with the balanced foot traffic to keep the place afloat, in both financial and emotional sensibilities.

It is in this environment that I subtly realize that I have company.

They do not arrive with spectacle, but with a gradual proximity. I feel the displacement of the air beside me, a shift in the density of the crowd as a specific, knowable presence falls into step. I do not turn my head to confirm their arrival; I don't have to. They are my constant companion each time I dream my way here. We move in synchrony, our footsteps a counterpoint on the polished tile.

There is a familiarity here, yet it is a comfort that carries an edge. I catch the blur of them in my periphery: a certain shape, a clean shadow, but I keep my gaze fixedly forward. To acknowledge them directly would be to invite a conversation. Instead, I maintain a careful distance within our togetherness—a self-imposed exile.

But I feel a touch of impatience at the edge of my anxiety, a quiet friction. Even as we browse the few shops I can remember entering, I am hyper-aware of their eyes. It is a silent monitoring that turns my wandering into a performance. I find myself feigning interest in displays I care nothing about, waiting for the moment I can slip away. I am plotting a divergence, a way to escape their gaze so I can finally search for the thing I really came for; unobserved, unquestioned, and finally, solitary.

We progress together, nonetheless. I surrender fully to the notion that I will not be unseen by my silent attendant. I focus on the task at hand: the search for some unknowable item. Across the polished floor, I see sale banners—crimson and bold—inflicting their influence effortlessly on my irresolute compass. They pull me toward the racks, promising a shortcut to the unblemished anxiety I crave.

I skim through each item in front of me. I see several things I love; pieces that resonate with an internal frequency I can't quite name. But the search always ends at the same brick wall. It’s never in my size. The fit is the failure. My breath wells deep inside my belly as a sigh infuses my soul and escapes through my mouth. I am all at once tired of this experience; of being offered the vision but denied the joy.

As I stand there, the tag still in my hand, my companion presses nearer. The air between us thickens with proximity. They do not speak, yet the air vibrates with their single, wordless question:

Why?

The question hangs in the sterile air, denser than the trees outside. It is the thematic pulse of this dream reduced to a single syllable, whether asked by the one person I can neither escape nor answer, or manufactured within the confines of my soul, I know not which.

In the multitude of existence within these false realities, I vacillate within the frequency of staying and leaving. Most often the dream fades to black—a melancholy transition of the random firing of synapses as the mind tries so hard to fix what is broken. Other times still, I am left seeking an exit, unable to remember my initial direction or reason for coming. Each exit leads to an even more absurd area, like the doors we find ourselves trapped behind in those dreams of tension and angst.

Eventually, I am outside again, staring at the empty parking lot. The sky still leans upon the horizon with breathless silence and nakedness. The perimeter is an inescapable fence of spruce and hemlock that prohibits my wandering further.

My eyes open, sparkling with tears.