My business was flourishing, and I was yearning for a return to the tranquil beauty of Kent, the esteemed ‘Garden of England’. I craved more than the impersonal hum of city life. Home, as they say, is where the heart resides, and mine was calling me back to Kent.
Circumstances had earlier necessitated my shift from Folkestone, Kent to the bustling heart of London. I found myself drifting between friends’ couches and grappling with a fractured family dynamic. Ironically, my father deemed me the discordant note in our familial symphony. This, despite my painstaking efforts over a year to mend bridges, encouraging my estranged brother to reunite with our father.
This revelation came to the fore in a café, a tense reunion where layers of concealed corruption were laid bare. Bereft of any pretence, my father, flanked by my brother, rejected me, leaving me penniless and emotionally desolate. In the face of such deep-rooted betrayal, I found myself standing at life’s precipice, forced to restart from the ground up.
Having hit rock bottom, I was rendered invisible to them, the good I had done swallowed by the injustice inflicted by my father. Betrayed by my own kin, I found them far more daunting adversaries than any external enemies. I had given my all, and they had cast it aside. The time had come to conserve my energies for those who deserved it.
With renewed resolve, I crafted a fresh business strategy, planting the seeds of my impending success. As my diligent efforts began to bear fruit, the prospect of returning to Kent and setting up my desired home became a tangible reality.
During an afternoon siesta, I had an exceptionally lucid dream. I found myself exploring a house with pristine white walls, standing on a luxurious green carpet, like a prospective buyer on a property tour. The reality was so tangible; I could feel the sturdy floor beneath my feet, and could appreciate the view through the windows to the garden beyond, including the striking 1980s retro curtains. These memories were etched deeply, signposting my path forward.
Upon waking, I was imbued with a sense of purpose: I had to find the house from my dream. Driven by this resolve, I scoured Zoopla, searching for a house that echoed my dream, a future canvas for my art. Despite the missing curtains in the listing, I felt an undeniable connection to a certain property. So strong was this connection that I let my ex-wife view the property and make the final decision whilst being absent from visiting the property, which she affirmatively made.
A quaint two-bedroom terraced house, complete with a spacious living room, a front garden protected by a black metal picket fence, a rose bush, and private parking space – it was the embodiment of my aspirations. This would be my coastal sanctuary, with the hustle and bustle of London relegated to work commitments.
When moving day arrived and I stepped through the front door, I found my dream had taken tangible form. From the green carpet – a poignant reminder of our first mortgage and subsequent separation, this was also a forewarning of recurring events to come – to the uncannily familiar 1980s curtains, the house mirrored my vision. This was undoubtedly the home my subconscious had led me to, with the whispered suggestion of its transient nature.
In the days to come, it would become apparent why this was a temporary arrangement. Unresolved issues with my father lay in wait, and another chapter of remote viewing was poised to unfurl within my dreamscape.
This shamanic ability of mine, awakened during an afternoon nap, had proven instrumental in guiding me home, blending the boundaries of reality and dreams, steering me towards an intriguing future.
