dreams written, forgotten, remembered

Not so long ago I mentioned to a dear friend all my dreams where I was standing in front of the mailboxes back in the house in my home town. It seems like I had countless of these memories turned into dreams. I was maniacally searching for letters in our box, but often even in others', too. Sometimes I found plenty, they were just pouring out of the box, and I couldn't hold them. Then on other occasions there was nothing there. I was even asking the neigbours who lived on the ground floor, if they knew where my post went, and why I didn't get any.

At least once while I was standing there I got chased down to the basement. The door that led there was right next to the mailboxes, under the stairs. I've never went down there in real life, as it's been closed all the time, and even the door handle was missing. But I remember that I was trying to get out of the deep water that gathered inside there. Very likely I recalled a big downfall from my childhood when I overheard some people saying that even that place was flooded. Then later in my dream, or maybe in another one, I was outside, and hiding there, in front of that door, from someone running down the stairs.

Now that I wrote that down, I can recall that I often had dreams where I was standing on the top floor, in front of our flat. Then hearing someone coming upstairs, I headed up to the roof exit, and tried to hide there, holding my breath. Funny that it all came back now. It's a strange thing memory, and then thoughts and dreams playing their games together. Often there was an extra floor with a gallery full of big, tropical plants up there. That is in my dreams. I guess, only to make this hide-and-seek game even more interesting.

And so I suddenly had a flashback. In another one of these nightmares I was riding a bycicle, which I can't in reality, though I've tried to learn it several times. It felt like flying, and I enjoyed this kind of freedom a lot. Then I came to that square with the horrible statue of a skeleton man hanging on a tree. This was a real place that I often crossed on my way home from school. As I was circling round that little elevation with the statue on top of it, I noticed a man in hoods approaching me. I tried to get out of his way, but he seemed to cross mine all the time, so that I could only avoid the crash at the last second. Then I understood that I was being hunted by him, and knew if I was caught, it meant certain death.