I sometimes feel homesick to a memory that had never even existed. A feeling synonymous to Déjà vu, but not exactly Déjà vu. I feel as if it had been hardwired into my system before even I was born.
It includes the sight of a huge old-fashioned, glass window in the spiraling path of a bulky, broad wooden staircase. The staircase slithers upwards but adjusts accordingly to the shape of the square tower that confines it. There I am standing about twenty yards away from the window, facing it with my left hand sliding up the inclined, lush handrail that’s probably made of polished shisham. I look up towards the decorated window that somewhat resembles the window of a church. It’s the middle of a hot day as the sun shines through the window, illuminating the staircase with colorful lights that emerge through the beautiful paintings on the glass made by glass paints.
This scenario that I’ve been virtually experiencing since I was six years old has been updating itself with more and more details, and upon each update, it seems as if it were there in my mind since the very beginning. But the mystery does not really lie within the description of that imaginary wooden staircase, but in how it resides inside my mind in the way it does.
And every time I think about the wooden staircase, a bittersweet feeling takes hold of me, like the one you get after waking up from a beautiful dream and missing it so badly that you wish you had never woken up. Judging from how far our actual lives are from being perfect, I consider that particular scenario to be an ‘ideal’ part of my life.
Photo taken from http://freestocks.org/photo/church-window/