Lovecraft described something like this – the way that non-Euclidean spaces seeped in from an alternate realm so that the room was too large for the angles where the walls met the corner of the ceiling. And so I stood there in the seeming centre of it, marvelling at the way the walls bowed outwards like a fish-eyed lens view and yet were always the same distance from my outstretched hands. Faces lined the walls, hovering just on the edge so that I could only view them peripherally but each one distinct and I was certain they were the strangers who’d crossed my path that day. Had they seen me when I walked by them on the tree-lined streets that morning? I could not know; perhaps I barely registered on their conscious minds, a fleeting image of a shadowy figure operating at a lesser complexity than their five dimensional selves.
The mind has a funny way of fixating on strangers, how it selects a random individual and draws them into the dream room as if they are some sort of ethereally significant soul mate, as yet unknown and perhaps never to be known. But I imagine that if I could scratch through the multi-angled corners of the room and find the cavity on the other side of the wall, there I would meet them and the conversation could begin.
Inspired by a prompt on a writing website, this is a loose interpretation of a series of dreams I had recently. I typed it on my phone in iA Writer, which I wouldn’t normally do – I prefer handwriting and typing on a keyboard. I wonder if how much the medium in which one writes affects the outcome?