It was years and years that these dreams kept coming back. The same tree. The same house. The same grassy field. The same girl.
I refer to “dreams” as the set of them. They repeated, sure, but they always built off of each other. Each time they came back they’d be ever so slightly different. Like the creation of a game, the world kept getting altered and changed every time I revisited it. Every so often the event in question gets wiped and a new one takes its place.
It was some point during these dreams that I saw her family. At least, what I think is her family. There were a few other people that I saw with her that were in the same house. Every once and awhile I’d see another girl and a boy join Celeste around the house and in the plains. I watched the three live a life enclosed in a small world. Whether they know of larger worlds—worlds like the one we live in—I do not know. I don’t even know how they get their food, from all I can see it just lasts in an endless supply.
The other girl, I presume her sister, appeared quite a bit. She had a rather slim build, but was taller than Celeste. Her eyes were a bright cyan that matched her short and wavy hair. Her bangs were smooth and her hair fell right to her shoulders and flowed behind her with an elegance compared to the childish innocence of Celeste. I often saw her caring over the house as the oldest would, making tea and coffee in the mornings before everyone got down. The three of them would have rather compelling conversations, all filled with energy and smiling. They all acted as family, bearing unbreakable bonds that only strengthen every day.
There was also a boy who looked younger than the girl, but acted older than Celeste. His black hair was short and messy, in a chaotic but somewhat natural way. It felt as though he had styled it, each individual hair set to lay perfectly where he had wanted it. The tips of the hair were painted bright yellow, once more matching the eyes given to its host. I didn’t see him as often—he spent a lot of time alone in the house or outside in the plains away from the girls. He came back to cook dinner with the others at night, but they didn’t interact in the middle of the day. Despite that, they had a good relationship. I saw them laughing and playing often, and there didn’t seem to be any discourse. The three lived happily in their home, free of burden.
I couldn’t shake the thought that there was someone else. A fourth—someone missing from their table who they used to live with. I never saw any proper evidence I suppose. The table had many extra seats, so it’s not like there was one sole empty seat or anything. It just felt…off, I suppose. There was just an uneasy quiet—a never ending echo that rang through the house waiting to be quelled by the voice of someone missing. I was guessing—no, I was certain—that it had to do with that scarf.
The scarf in question being the one that Celeste hung up on the tree near their house. In every dream I had the scarf had stayed tied around the tree, blowing in the calm breeze that accompanied the sunny days and bright nights. I saw them all look up at the scarf longingly—as if it represented a memory long lost to the ages. There’s something there—untouched by the residence of the house but always lurking in the background. There was a very prominent aura it gave off, and the long lost memory left by the scarf seems to wrap around the endless landscape of the plains.
I couldn’t shake the thought that this was more than my “dreams.” Normally I heard people talk about dreams that I never had. Dreams of fame, wealth, or glory. Dreams where they were the star of the show. In my dreams, I wasn’t anywhere to be found. At least, that’s what I had thought.
The dreams continued for a long time. I slowly began to write notes down, figuring out what the purpose of them was. I have a notebook—a simple, red bullet journal that I got online. It was something I began to fill ever so slowly as I continued to have such strange visions. I only got a few pages in though. It’s not that I lost interest or anything. In fact, what happened next just made me even more curious.
Pages started to fill in themselves. Believe me if you will—I certainly had trouble believing it myself. I’d wake up some mornings with a foggy head and look over to my book already opened to a new page. It started with just single words—something added that I certainly didn’t remember. Over the course of months it began to become more noticeable. More words appeared, and they started to tell a story. Slowly they’re creating sentences—taking up more and more of the empty space in my notebook as they become more frequent. I’ve barely made sense of them. Everytime I read them my head starts to spin and I can barely focus. However, I think there’s something more important about them than their context.
Often, I write for the sake of conveying emotion. What that means is I don’t write to make a point or tell someone something specific, but instead I just try to get out a feeling that I have. I’d talk about something with a free flowing style and just list out whatever came to my mind. When I started to see patterns in the words, it reminded me of the nonsensical writings that I wrote whenever I wanted to get something out. My head starts to fill in blanks left by the words—a story, or parts of it at least.
Recently, I stored my journal next to my computer. I’m going to try and transfer the feeling left by these words into some kind of writing. I don’t know what I can really do—It’s a complete longshot that this can even tell me anything about whoever is writing these words and if it’s even connected to my dreams. All I can do is try it.
Feel free to read the stories that come from this. Perhaps you can help me understand more about this character, despite me being the one to create it.