I was in bed, half awake. My eyes were shut. I was acutely aware of the surroundings. The bed was next to a wall with a window. The door, painted in green, was to my right. Sounds from the piano resonated down the hallway from the living room.
My mother was outside somewhere, either occupying herself with housework or in the garden, I was not sure which. The coolness of the morning filled me with a sense of contentment. In the comfort of my pillows and ruffled blanket, I was reluctant to get up.
Reality seeped in as realisation slowly stirred me from the slumber. Indeed, there was a window on my left but the door to my right was grey and next to it was another door in the same colour. Sounds from the piano came from the neighbouring house and not from the living room.
My Twitter update a while later reflected my feelings when I became fully cognizant of where I really was.
For the past week or so, I have woken up remembering dreams like this. They are usually bits and pieces of familiar scenes; from my childhood, from my teenage years, from my past. The most vivid was also this, recurring every now and then, of the one place I felt most secure and comfortable in, my bedroom in the Jalan Terengganu house in Penang.
I guess, deep inside, one part of me wished I was still that seventeen year old kid, bumming around without a care in the world. Life was good back then. How was I to foresee my life would turn out the way it is now. Ignorance is bliss, they say. I cannot agree more, not that I have any complaint about my life now, on a personal level. Life is still good but dreams like that give me a sense of joy knowing that I have experienced such bliss before.