The Dream Bridge That Never Leads Home

There's something about bridges in my dreams that refuses to let me cross. Like clockwork, they crumble beneath my feet, sending me searching for alternative paths that never quite lead where I need to go. Last night was no different.

My friend was there – one of those old friends who exist in that comfortable space where time doesn't matter. What should have been a simple drive home, maybe two miles at most, turned into one of those dream-logic adventures where distance becomes elastic and destination becomes abstract.

The bridge, predictably, began to fall apart. But this time, instead of plummeting into the void, we found ourselves wading through water that didn't behave like water should. It had a strange viscosity, like honey mixed with mercury, pushing against our legs as if it had its own agenda. Sometimes it would surge backward, as if trying to reject us from its domain, forcing us to fight against its current.

We walked for what felt like hours through this resistant liquid landscape. The journey took on that hazy dream quality where time stretches like taffy and reality bends at the edges. Drugs appeared somewhere along the way – not the stark, clinical kind from the waking world, but the kind that only exist in dreams, adding another layer of unreality to an already surreal journey.

Home remained an elusive concept, shifting like a mirage on the horizon. I couldn't tell you where I was trying to get to, exactly. In dreams, "home" becomes more of a feeling than a place, a destination that exists in theory but never quite materializes in practice.

The thick water kept its secrets, and we kept walking, caught in that liminal space between departure and arrival. Sometimes I wonder if dream-me is still there, wading through that strange substance, eternally searching for a home that exists just beyond the edge of sleep.

It's funny how dreams work – they give us all these vivid details but no real story to hang them on. Just fragments of experience, emotions without context, and journeys without clear endings. Maybe that's why we remember them: not for their narrative coherence, but for the way they make us feel lost and found at the same time.

*This post is part of my ongoing series exploring the abstract landscapes of dreams where bridges fall, water thickens, and home remains perpetually just out of reach.*