As you may recall – you few, you happy few who actually follow my shitty little blog – I took a vacation last week.
I’ve been having a tough time at work with many transitions in process, changes and alterations, radical and minor. I’ll be moving from my current digs shortly, my old supervisor retired, my new one is… well, let’s just say that he reminds me of a heaping bag of salted rat dicks, and leave it at that.
Believe it or not, those are the minor changes.
Anyway, my first night on vacation, I dreamed I was in a vast building filled with storage units. You know the place: you stick your Grandma’s furniture in them when she has to stay in a long-term facility.
As I wander about the place, in the back of my mind I know there’s a symbology involved: this is not a literal dream.
A voice, perhaps the facility manager, speaks up and intones “Before you lay the broken dreams and failures of thousands of people.”
But really, that’s not what storage units are. Storage units represent hopes for better days. Sure, they are projects you had to put aside for whatever reason, like a big house that you lost in a divorce or because you lost your job. But if you truly failed, you’d have sold the stuff and been done with it.
With that thought, I realized I was not in a building, but in my own soul, my own mind. Inside this unit lay my theatrical props, in that other one, my photography and videography tools. Behind me lay many relationships and friendships, but you’ll note, I didn’t sell those off either. There’s always hope for some form of reconciliation.
Right now, I have to endure a test of my strength of character. I was never particularly good at those unless they were vital. Perhaps all I need to do at the end of this hallway is make a left and find another storage unit to stuff this experience away in. I’d sell it, if it had any value to anyone else.
I’ve got a pocketful of keys and a building full of doors.
Sounds like fun!