Recurring Dream

In a recurring dream I go to the same place. I can’t begin to tell you what it is. Not because of its grandeur, or that it is of some distant plane, but because it is nondescript, other than a building on the right that might be a diner. A path runs down along the left. I have a textbook in my hand. I think it has a purple cover. I read it every time. The assignment in the book, known only to my dream self, tells me to go somewhere. A secret path. Not down the visible path I see along the left of the building. But another. I can’t begin to tell you where. I head towards this path. It is thin, wooded, winding, steep in places. Old houses. Large and broken, scattered on ridges. Nestled in an area of the city that my dream self knows is unsafe. It leads to a clearing. A place where the brush is thinner, the elevation lower, and perhaps where other paths meet. There are no more houses. I always find another book, but it is thinner than the first one. Its cover is white, not purple. I sit down against the side of the hill, and I am writing something, something my dream self knows is part of the assignment. I look over my shoulder often, knowing that I am nestled in an area of the city that is unsafe. But I know that the path is secret, that few others are likely to find it. Robin Williams appears from another path. Every time, he appears. We embrace, as if we remember those dreams that came before and have again arrived at this crossorads to take stock of the journey since the last. My dream self knows that Robin Williams is dead. I never ask him if he knows. He says things to me. Many things. I can’t begin to tell you what. Only that he is kind.