There’s a large regional park in my hometown that I’ve been exploring since I was a kid; I still haven’t seen it all. I have this recurring dream where my childhood best friend and I are there. Only, we know of a secret place within it that no one else knows.
I don’t mean the shared experience of “we have a secret spot”. I mean a place that shouldn’t exist.
It’s hard to get there. It takes hours. There’s climbing, platforming, danger. But when we finally get there it’s incredible. Like we entered a portal into the next world. It’s flat for as far as the eye can see. Vibrant green grass and fauna everywhere. A thin layer of fog drapes everything, including our clothes. Large concrete slabs—monolithic, brutalist buildings—for some reason feel so at home here. I can’t tell if they’re abandoned or remain in use today. Are they alien, or human? In the end, does it really matter?
I struggle expressing why I find that place so beautiful. But a part of me, every time I awake from this dream, is sad it doesn’t exist. That I can’t go there. Sometimes I wake up and feel that it truly is there. That if I just follow the right route I’ll find it.