I had a dream that I was in Russia. I was walking through the streets looking for this house. I wasn't quite sure what I would find, but when I matched up the numbers with the paper in my hand, I stood before a mansion. It grew before me out of the shadows of the surrounding buildings. Each stone prominent in its own right, gracefully resting against its brother. The doors, heavy and wooden, opened for my as I approached and a grand staircase wove its way down the room, from the second story interior balcony on the left , over the double doors in front of me, and and finally touching down just to the right of the entrance. An American stood there holding the hands of a Russian Princess. A girl I once knew. They were engaged to be married. He was dressed in a light royal blue, her in a white gown, and they smiled the same smile at me.
He introduced himself to me and the two of us took a walk through the house. We walked under magnificent paintings of revolution, which hovered on brown decorated walls. The floor was lined with red carpet which led the tour as if it were the standardized route that anyone must take upon entering the house.
I was happy for her, that she found this American. He seemed to be everything I wanted to be, and as I left that palace, I felt as if I'd never see them again, but that I knew that they would both be well and live as if the world wasn't crumbling around them. That wasn't the life I had to live, so I moved on.