A dream I once had

A few years ago I had a thing for a woman I knew. I've mentioned her before.

She was willowy and ethereal, kind of a hippie/Buddhist/gypsy type. She wasn't as gauzy as I usually like, but she was still fairly gauzy.

I had a dream about her once. In this dream, we were sitting cross-legged on my dining room floor, facing each other. All the furniture was gone from the room. On my left were about two dozen candles of all shapes, sizes and heights, placed in an equally wide variety of holders. Between us on the floor was a translucent glass dome, like an inverted bowl, about four inches high and ten inches in diameter. It glowed with a cool white light.

I raised my right hand, and she raised her left hand. We placed our fingertips together, and suddenly the walls of the room just sort of fell away, and we were surrounded by a field of millions of stars - the whole galaxy stretched out around us. Neither of us spoke, but we both understood that the disappearance of the walls symbolized the disappearance of everything that was false and artificial, and that the stars represented the essential truth of existence.

Based on that - plus the fact that she once fell off a chair laughing at one of my stories - I decided I was in love with her. And maybe I was. But that went the way it usually went in my life.

I never told her about that dream. I'm still trying to pin down the essential truth of existence.