Dream House

Olivia Deasy '19, Staff Writer

Outside, I am an orphan. I have lived all alone at the mercy of the world.

More than any necessity

the lowly as I was

savage for a home, a forever place to be satisfied with joys and pleasures still no one can name. But as I am now, I live safe inside.

From wandering from plain to street, forest to floors, mountains to oceans, deserts to lakes, rivers, waterfalls,

where every man has gone or no man has seen,

behind all landscapes, crowds, wildernesses,


lies my shelter: struck by lightning, protected by clouds, illuminated by the sun, but greeted by the moon.

Lower than heaven, but overlooking all the earth, neighbored with the Mother of all the world

whom has kept me bound to the ground, along with her rocks and plants she must love so.


I have found my palace: built in glass

existing as merely a spherical reflection of the sky below it and the stars looking down,

without a piece out of place or a speck of dirt laying upon a piece of it,

I couldn’t possibly be dirty anymore, for I was renewed by the sight upon its conception.

Each step into my surreal complex, the bitter Mother looks on as I run through the towering doors and stand into the enlightenment of my estate’s endless roof,

still visible to me with paintings that move their cars, people,

their clouds and horses and hands to cross, topple,

to greet, stare, to live and die and love and hate each other above them, below,

and at any turn of a head and eyes. Along with the pictures accompany hundreds of more lines and columns of words,

laid out in front of me, speaking in millions of characters, making upon thousands of languages, tongues, and dialects,


Like the northern lights, the roof’s millions of color combinations float as millions more lines and columns as on a grid

come and go over my head and absorb my eyes as I gaze at the big top’s acts

and its captions reveal it codes of listings

number after number,

for time and space,

then flashes all into a blink of my eyes.


Every flash completely differs from the other, and makes me think that I actually see nothing at all,

but for my entire palace it will be mine upon obtaining one key.


It was possible for me to find my way here only by the advertisements of this key I see everywhere,

in everything,

where everyone walks but do not seem to see it,

where, and in the way I do. For all this time, I imagined I could be this key by pretending the roof has always been on the top of my mind, but never has that vision left me.


The moment I found my estate, suspended in outstanding height,

in the center of shining complex staircases and tiny frames holding countless rooms, I see the colossal, ascending key insert its cuts into the keyhole, piercing the roof,

made of the same heavenly glass as the rest of the palace,

and illuminates the black, airy keyhole, blurred at the edges, to the brightest darkness. Continually the key slowly turns clockwise, keeping the roof in tact and turning. Every flash before me I see is by the turning of the key.

Only by the full possession of it could my estate no longer be a flash.

It would come to be a reality.


But such a reality is the abounding fullness of these flashes,

terrifying beyond anything in this place. The giant sequoia tree of a key I navigate,

both the cliff-towering height and cavernous, hellbound depth I see everything at

cannot compare to the chronic shots of pain these flares cause. At any duration, the flashes cause more and more chaotic matter to escape my brain,

twisting my face and tightening like a mask of ice, squeezing every feature as a hand squeezes a foam ball, to feel tears flooding my head,

opposite the water stirring is a pit of flames racing inside my torso, made from an anger at ignorance, of being lost.


When the fire rages the power goes out in my estate

against the flashes.

With my palace up in flames I see the most heartfelt destruction. They are no source of light, but its smoke traps me inside, reducing the room to breathe.

With the fires engulfing me I have no chance of finding the clear and safe sight of my estate. I am tortured by the vision of this rage burning everything down,

being left in nothing but a place in a lack of color

left entirely in the dark,

where only winds and shifts of polluted, fruitless air blows through, carrying no seeds of redemption.

Such times when these end times come near,

I see nothing, I know nothing.

But still no wildfire could burn down the tree of life I hope I have appended myself to,

enough to reach the top

to stretch up to the water

to completely suppress the fires

to behold the keyhole again and have the key in my hands instead of having to climb it.

With this connection I will see every color the estate holds,

I will not just see, I will seize,

seize what is there for me to see, see every color bring its light to me so it plays,

plays on its disk and turns

turns so I can watch all the colors and lines and words and numbers move together side-by-side to make a movie.

And though that movie holds my vision, I will know what it all means, like what I search for in a book.


The disk is rolling again. The power of the flashes had once again started up, so that means the flames must be dying down. I move inside to find the unbounded roof,

the pictures,

the lights,

the stairs,


the colors,

letters and numbers,

time and space everything fills, that I am unlimited to, upon the vision of the keyhole

the key.

The key, I determine, will unlock me soon from the estate, as I will need to leave, but as of now it locks me in for the day. Over long nights I continue to live safe inside. But maybe tonight I will still be reading the movie.