"No one wants to hear
what you dreamt about
unless you dreamt about them
Don't let that stop you
tell them anyway"
So I will.
I've had these dreams for a while now, ever since I've started my British Literature class, that take place during the...Victorian Era? Gregorian Era? I'm unsure...but leaning more toward Victorian. Who knows. In either case, I am somehow of wealth.
I know that it is what is said about every dream, but these are bizarre. Yet, in an almost tame way. Nothing fantastical happens that would defy the laws of the universe, but just the same, nothing is quite normal about them either. Oh, and they seem to follow a story. I've had story dreams before that have been vivid enough and cohesive enough to write down, but nothing like this.
It's a beautiful sort of world, really. Where realism is, at times, paralleled with romanticism. Myself in the dream, I am sometimes seen from the third person, and though I do my best to hold the posture and mannerisms of a gentleman, I slouch at times and absentmindedly unbutton my coat. In the latest dream, I have seen my love interest for the second time. She is pretty enough, and carries herself with a passing amount of grace. I watched her, through a window, as she walked alone the path from the lake to the house. She decided to sit on a bench under a tree, and reclined herself to read a book in a most unladylike fashion. People could see her, and she could be scolded, she is still young enough. And that attracts me, that she simply does not care. She is too sad.
I did not watch her for long, because I was only on that estate under the charade of an introductory tea with some family of hers. When I left, ...now I go a bit blank. But I remember changing my clothes and going to the whore house I stay at every night, more often than not on my own in the attic room. And I swear to god, what woke me up from my dream was the combination of the cold, the awful smell, and the sounds from the lower floors. And the weirdest thing was that I woke up in love.