The Mosswood Retreat

Dream log of a strange, uncannily vivid location, a liminal mansion in the English countryside, and a mysteriously intense new character. #DawnOfTheMachineElves

Epistemic Status: Dream Log

...more of an intense hypnagogic hallucination, vivid in the moment, indistinguishable from reality with eyes open. We're on retreat. Someone has rented a house out in the woods, though it looks more like a mansion, complete with a full courtyard. There's a lot of walking between the gates that guard the entryway and the various rooms where people gather. The weather is gloomy and overcast, with moss creeping up the sides of the plain white brick walls. A few people accumulate in a room with a fireplace as we settle in for the evening and get the fire going. You're there, standing a little too close and staring, penetrating me with those gray eyes, like we already know each other. It's not unpleasant, but rather surreal and familiar. The space between us is thick with tension.

People spread out on the couches and such, Wystan lays with his feet propped up on one of the sofa arms texting his spouse, and two young girls, giggling like teenagers, cluster around you, asking questions. Too young for you. I cozy up, introducing myself, and start asking them questions in turn, like how old they are and what brought them on the retreat.

"Twenty-one," one of them replies, and we exchange various pleasantries. At one point, you're glancing at your phone while sitting close enough on one of the adjacent sofas that my hand falls over yours, almost by accident, but a bit of a possessive gesture. I can't help myself. The two girls keep talking like they don't notice—maybe they don't, since the fire is the only light in the cool room—and you don't pull away. A heady euphoria blossoms inside of me.

My group leaves to stake out our bunk beds as it has grown dark, and I linger behind, suddenly realizing that the people I'm supposed to be rooming with are gone. I hurry to find them, feeling a pang of regret at not saying goodbye to you or letting you know where I'm going. But when I turn around, there you are again: face to face, looking at me with those intense eyes, the same way as before, a little too intently. Now your eyes are more slate blue than translucent grey, as they were before. You're rooming with us. The halting hesitance of having to restrain myself in your presence gradually melts into the realization that the intensity of my attention is being reciprocated.