A mother and child share a joyful walk along a rugged coastal path at sunset.
Pip: There’s something about waking up at 5:52 in the morning and reaching for a pen before the dream dissolves that feels quietly urgent — like the mind knows something the rest of the day will drown out.
Mara: That’s exactly the territory masmeron is working in here — a dream, a hillside, a house, and what lingers when you open your eyes. Let’s start with the hill itself.
Top of the Hill
Pip: Dreams are slippery things. Most of them evaporate the moment the alarm goes off, but occasionally one leaves a shape behind — a feeling, a place, a face. This post is about one of those.
Mara: The setting is a rural hillside, and the post opens with this: “The hill was located in the rural area wherein I can feel the fresh and cooler air as we move toward a house.”
Pip: What strikes me about that line is the present tense — “I can feel” — as if the memory of the dream is still happening, still physical. The air isn’t remembered; it’s experienced.
Mara: The house they reach has a few rooms, painted bluish white, everything in its place, and nobody inside. The mother’s reaction is described simply: “My mother was amazed with a beautiful house. It showed it on her face.”
Pip: No inventory of the rooms, no architectural detail — just the expression on her face. That’s the whole image, and it carries more than a paragraph of description would.
Mara: Then the dreamer steps outside and the scale shifts. More hills, more distance, and at the top of one of them, a small single-floor house made of light materials, a rain-proofed roof, dried wood walls. No people, no animals.
Pip: Just the cool air again. The dream keeps returning to that — the freshness, the temperature. It’s the one sensory thread that holds the whole landscape together.
Mara: And then: “My dream discontinued when I open my eyes and see in the window blinds slits the morning light. It was 5:52 in the morning already.”
Pip: “Discontinued” is an unusual word for it. Not ended, not faded — discontinued, like a signal that was simply cut.
Mara: It’s precise in a way that feels accidental and exactly right. The dream had its own continuity, and waking interrupted it rather than concluded it.
Pip: A hillside, a house at the top, a mother’s face — the kind of dream that doesn’t explain itself but doesn’t need to.
Mara: Next time, more of what surfaces when the morning light comes through.
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