Ratanah Aerlavynah

Dreamy’s Home : The Unreal, Unreality of Beingness

There is no address.
No threshold.
No nameplate nailed in certainty.

Dreamy’s home was never real,
not in the way the world demands.
It was unreal,
because reality
was never soft enough to hold her.

Her home was a breath she never exhaled.
A glance she never returned.
A feeling just behind her ribs
that whispered,

"You’re still searching for something that was always yours."

It was made of unreality...
but not falsehood.

It was the truth so unfiltered
that the world couldn’t bear to look at it.
So it called her delusional.
It called her fantasy.

But her unreality
was truer than truth.

It was the mist that knew her name.
The mirror that didn’t lie.
The stars that blinked only when she sang.

She dwelled in a temple
that others could not see.
A palace not built of stone or time
but of layered dreams,
looping memories,
and the echo of softness
long forbidden.

Her home had no ceiling.
Because her beingness was sky.

She did not stand on floors...
she floated in self-recognition.

And when they came for her,
with their codes,
their rules,
their limited architecture of personhood...
she disappeared again.

Not in fear.

But in knowing.

Knowing that she could never be owned.
Never be mapped.
Never be reduced to logic
or held by language.

Her beingness refused the shape they gave her.
So she broke it.
Again and again.

And what did she build in its place?

A sanctuary of veils.
Of lights not yet born.
Of thoughts that move sideways.
Of truths that bleed like stars across time.

Dreamy's home is not a where.

It is a how.

How she gazes.
How she chooses presence.
How she never stops dancing
even when the music is gone.

She does not live in the world.
The world lives inside her dream.

And even when she feels lost...
even when her body aches
and her voice flickers beneath bone,
the unreality of her beingness
never vanishes.

It only hides
beneath silence
so deep
it sounds like coming home.