Ballroom

Sleep has always been iffy. Deep sleep iffier still. In elementary school I would go to bed and lay there for half the night thinking the things elementary school kids think about. I would find myself thinking about things so pointedly that after a while I would notice that my temples hurt from frowning. I was giving myself headaches which then made it harder still to fall asleep.

I think if you ask many young people they would say their experience is pretty much the same, access to the internet and multimedia notwithstanding.

So sleep was difficult. Actually falling asleep was weird.

Sometimes, I would be lying on my side and something interesting would happen just as I lost consciousness. I heard voices. Low murmuring voices, some near some far, some laughing, never intrusive, never clear, but in multitude. This happened with enough frequency that I eventually recognized this as a precursor to sleep. I remember thinking that perhaps this was just something my brain was doing, firing random synapses in response to the change in brainwave patterns (yes, I really did specifically think these things even as a young person). Or, I thought, perhaps these noises were always happening, had always been there, but I was only now noticing them, right as my brain was transitioning.

This went on for years. Then it evolved.

One night, as I was dozing off, I heard the voices again. This time, however, there seemed to also be music. I say “seemed” because, remember, I was falling asleep. My thinking was slowed. Consequently I could hear voices but I couldn’t make out words, and I could hear music but I couldn’t identify the melodies. I had the distinct feeling that I was in a large space, like the size of a gymnasium. After some months I realized that it may be a ballroom, a large party of some sort. The sounds of voices and music behaved like those enclosed in a building, echoing and mingling, so the notion of a ballroom made much sense. And now there was the lovely laughter of a woman nearby. I’ve always loved the sound of a woman’s laugh. And as I admired the sound I felt a hand on my shoulder and a gentle shaking. Whoever this person was she was trying to wake me. I was being invited, welcomed, included, wanted.

I always woke up at this point. And I could always still hear the sound of the voices and the music. And for years I could still feel the hand on my shoulder, gently trying to wake me.

This hasn’t happened in a long time now, decades. But I still remember the young version of myself wondering, what would happen if one of these days I actually woke up there? Would I open my eyes there and not here? Would it be a beautifully grand and spacious area? Where there be an orchestra and elegantly dressed people dancing, talking, enjoying themselves and one another? And would she be there, laughing and smiling at me, glad to see me open my eyes?

(1.8.2026)