A Night Beneath the High Rise

Last night’s dream lingered with me in a way that I can’t quite shake. It was one of those dreams where the feelings are stronger than the details, but the emotions feel as vivid as the images.

I was walking alone in a city at night, London, to be exact, and it felt like a moment of quiet departure. I was on my own, but it didn’t feel like loneliness—it felt more like anticipation, as if I were about to say goodbye to something, to someone, or maybe even a part of myself. The streets were dark, yet there was something beautiful about the way the city lights cast long shadows. And then, I saw it—the building.

It was a high-rise, standing tall and silent in the night, almost suffocating in its isolation. The space between two towers was narrow and claustrophobic. It was exactly like a picture Maddie once took, a place I knew from her eyes, from her view of the world. It felt so familiar, so filled with her presence, even though she wasn’t there. It was like a piece of her still lingered in that spot, a piece of her that saw beauty in the solitude, in the stillness. I felt this overwhelming wave of longing, nostalgia, and sadness—yet there was a strange sense of peace too, like I had stumbled upon something special, something worth remembering.

I took photos of the building, wanting to hold onto that moment. I knew that this was something I couldn’t let go of—this quiet, wistful beauty. It felt like the dream itself was telling me that some parts of her—her essence, her way of seeing—had never really left me. Even though I couldn't be there with her, I could still experience the world through her eyes.

And then, I walked into the building. The darkness inside was thick, almost suffocating, and as I moved through it, I felt a sense of unease, like something was coming behind me. I could hear someone walking, getting closer. The air felt heavy with tension, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t safe. I tried to hurry, but the person ahead of me, an older man, was walking slowly, blocking my way out.

When I finally passed him and reached the exit, it was blocked by a bicycle. I felt trapped. I glanced over my shoulder, my heart pounding, expecting something, someone, to be there. And then I saw her—a woman. It wasn’t dangerous, after all. I felt relieved, even as I still had to move the bicycle to free the door. As I stepped outside into the night, I couldn’t help but feel like I was escaping something, leaving something behind. The darkness lifted, and I felt the weight of everything I had been carrying in that place suddenly fall away.

It was a strange mix of emotions—nostalgia, fear, relief, and an underlying sense of clarity. I woke up with a rush of sadness and longing, as though I had just said goodbye to something I didn’t quite understand yet. I cried when I woke up, feeling the weight of that dream press on me, as if it were urging me to leave something behind, to let go of something I’ve been holding onto too tightly.

But there was something else—something more powerful. It was the realization that, in that moment, I had this awareness that I need to leave something behind. I need to create, to write, to leave pieces of myself for my mother to find after I die young. It was a deep, sad kind of clarity, the kind that comes when you understand that time is finite, and the things that matter most are the things you leave behind for those who will carry them.

In the dream, I wasn’t just letting go—I was also moving forward, and that’s what I took with me when I woke up.

These are the only two photos she took I could find that capture the same vibe as the one in my dream. There were more but I don't have access to them now.

I'll always be in awe of your talent, always rooting for your name to shine, no matter if you’re mine.