You’ve asked me many times if the wolves are singing. Tonight yes, they sing loudly; clearly, distinctly their voices carry above the frog racket from the marsh across the road. They celebrate life, announce it to each other, share it with all who will listen. Their voices make me happy because I love their presence, and because they make me think of you.
But I don’t dream of them. Nor do I dream of you. Instead I dream of red rooms, in particular, a giant room large enough, tall enough to hold my house. It’s crowded, but I don’t hear its heat or taste its sweat. I see only across the tops of people’s heads to a wall and ceiling far away, trying to calculate its dimensions.
You see, this room is a deep rich red, even within its shadows. It insists. It tells me it is part of my grandfather’s cottage, a fact impossible to question within a dream.
In a real world it would make no sense. Just as in a real world, the wolves howl, but the stories they tell are impossible to follow — they are secret wolf tales, you see.
Do wolves dream of red rooms? Not likely, for they would have to cross a divide of species, of worlds, of knowing to enter the red room of my dreams.
Oh, but if they did, you and I would know the secrets of their stories, their legends and myths. We could whisper them to each other, send our conversations out above the crowd of heads to echo amongst the walls of our red room.
Cross posted at Red Room