A home: one of the most important elements of my daydreams. A bedroom is furnished with mostly white furniture; a giant tree –hopefully of a cherry tree in the yard comes into sight through the huge windows of the bedroom. When the sun shines, the leaves of the tree cast their shadows on the walls, and when it rains, the leaves get in harmony with the raindrops, and again, the leaves shade. Along with the wind, shades are dancing a tango into the room.
In the mornings, I prepare breakfast: crepes, pancakes, French toasts… I brew tea in a china teapot. My cat comes and rubs his head against my leg; it means “I’m hungry mom.” I cuddle him, and refresh his food. Then I go into the living room and turn on the TV, and find a jolly music channel.
I, generally in all frames, seem alone. Except the cat, I don’t really have a home-mate. I don’t try to share the things that I have. I am so buried under my so-called “individualism” that all those daydreams end with tears. The daydream turns into an incubus thus and so.