Dear journal,
I start my Naptime Classical playlist. The first notes of Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 9 in D Major brighten the room, each phrase like sunlight spilling over polished wood. A wet nose brushes my hand. I close my eyes and sink into the sound.
Debussy’s Deux Arabesques No. 1 in E Major arrives—its delicate arcs and swirling patterns lift me out of my body. I am floating, at first just above the bed, the room receding like a watercolor dissolving in water. Then the pull begins—slow at first, then inevitable.
The walls dissolve into a vast, endless black, pricked with light. I drift upward, higher, until the Earth itself is beneath me, shrinking into a blue-white marble. Stars multiply all around, some sharp and diamond-bright, others softened by veils of dust. Fauré’s Berceuse threads through the darkness, its lilting rhythm carrying me forward like a gentle current.
I pass through a drifting field of ice and rock, the silence absolute but for the music. A spiral galaxy blooms before me, its arms curling in slow majesty. Nebulae unfurl in colors that shouldn’t exist—deep violets, burning golds, a green so soft it feels like breath on glass. Planets turn silently below, one veined with rivers of silver, another glowing faintly from within.
Liszt’s Liebestraum begins, its yearning melody tethering me to something human even as I float farther away. Time doesn’t exist here—only distance, and the pull of the unknown.
Then Le Cygne enters. The swan is here too, gliding effortlessly through the void, its feathers catching the starlight. I follow it until the darkness folds in on itself, and I’m sinking once again.
I wake briefly to a sharp pounce—my foot has become prey—but drowsiness wins again.
Now I’m somewhere else. A house, but not my house. Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8 hums in the background, a slow pulse that pushes me forward. The air smells faintly of dust and something floral, like potpourri long forgotten in a drawer.
The walls look painted—too smooth, the colors slightly too bold—yet when I touch them, they’re cool and solid. Each door opens into another version of the same room: chairs in different places, curtains drawn in one, open in the next. The light seems artificial, yet I can’t find its source—no lamps, no fixtures. Shadows bend strangely, stretching toward me when I move.
I pass a framed family portrait in the hall. The faces are blurred, not with motion, but as if someone had rubbed them away with the flat of their hand. The glass is warm when I touch it.
Some rooms feel too large for the house—ceilings arching high above, echoes that take too long to return. Others are too small, cramped as if the walls had been pushed inward. The floorboards groan beneath my weight, but when I look down, they’re perfectly still.
Fauré’s Berceuse gives the moment a soft, lulling haze, but underneath it, something stirs. The light flickers. The air thickens.
They are here. I know it without proof. I never see them, but their presence is undeniable—a pressure behind my ribs, a sensation like being watched from inside my own skull.
I run. The house begins to collapse behind me, folding inward like a paper model crushed in a fist. Rooms buckle and dissolve into shadow. The Raindrop Prelude marks each step, the repeating note like a slow, relentless heartbeat.
I burst through a final door into nothingness—a void of wind and blinding light. The world erupts behind me, but the sound is swallowed before it reaches me.
I wake. Liszt’s Un Sospiro is playing now, each rippling arpeggio like water spilling over smooth stone. A wet nose nudges my hand. The other three cats have joined me, their warm bodies pressed close. Sunlight floods the bed. Dust motes drift lazily in the air.
The day is far from over, but I remain in that suspended state—hovering between the infinite and the familiar. Separate. Quiet. Content.
Always,
Dave