My whole life I’ve had these recurring dreams that someone is breaking into my childhood house.
Every door is glass. I peek through the discreet cut-out my parents created for real-life situations like this. Everything is the same. There is no hiding.
For some reason it’s always me who knows there’s an intruder. I try to lock all of the glass doors. I’m running from one to the next. My hands are shaking, my heart is racing and when I turn around, someone’s in the house. It all happens so quickly. I never get there fast enough.
I’ve had this dream so many times at this point that I know exactly what I’m supposed to do. I grab a weapon. Gun from the places my dad hides his guns, a knife from the kitchen drawer, any heavy object, or most often: my bare hands. Regardless of the weapon, it’s the same thing every time. I violently destroy this person’s body just in case they try to come back to life. I don’t want to take any risks.
For some crazy reason, it took me years to figure out what this means, but I think the answer is clear. It must be the reason so many famous musicians write lyrics with the metaphor about living in a glass house.
Do you have a recurring nightmare?
I told my dad about these dreams once.
“Someone’s always trying to get in and –”
“You can’t get to the door fast enough!” My dad finished my sentence.
“Yes! How’d you know?” I asked.
“Because I have the exact same dreams. Someone breaks in... and then someone kills them.”
“It’s me.” I said, astonished.