A Song I Almost Knew

I dreamt last night for the first time in a while.

I haven’t been journaling my dreams as much as I’d like, so most of the big details are fuzzy—but some images remain, bright and sharp as stained glass. What I remember clings to me with that uncanny weight of something both ephemeral and vital.

In the dream, I was walking through a dark city. There were no lights in the windows or sky, no stars, no hum of electricity. The city hadn’t fallen back to nature; it wasn’t overgrown or abandoned. Whatever had set this place in darkness had happened recently. The silence was fresh.

I was somewhere on the East Coast, maybe New York City, not Boston. It had that grid feeling—organized but overwhelming, vertical and unyielding. As I walked, I kept leaving my body. I’d rise above the streets, circling the skyline like a bird watching its earthbound twin. I could see myself wandering through that forest of concrete and steel, silent and alone.

It was so quiet. Not Vermont quiet—no rustling trees, crickets, or birdsong—but something else. A pressured quiet. A held breath. It wasn’t just that no one was around. It was that the city itself wasn’t breathing.

Then, far down a street, I saw a flickering light reflected on the dark windows of one of the taller buildings. I hesitated. I couldn’t tell if it was a campfire or something else. There were no voices. Just static. A low, vibrating hum, like something winding up inside the silence.

It reminded me of something real.

Years ago, while working for the post office, I was parked at a business during a blizzard, prepping a delivery, when I heard a strange hum. Low at first, then rising fast in pitch and vibration until—crack, boom—a transformer exploded in blue fire, sending arcs of that same blue fire down the power lines. It set the trees on fire down the line, and I could taste the static that erupted into the air.

In this dream, the same copper tang filled the air—the same low charge and vibrating presence—but I wasn’t afraid.

Between two skyscrapers, hidden in an alley, the light became more distinct—a swirling energy, flickering between deep blue and bright gold. Occasionally, it would flash violet before returning to blue and gold. It moved like flame and liquid at once. It felt like a portal, though not the kind I’d imagined. There was nothing mystical or secret about it. It felt obvious, even plain.

Still, I hesitated.

Something was luring in it. Not threatening—but pulling. Singing.

It began to hum a song in a language I didn’t know, yet somehow recognized. The moment it started, I felt this deep ache, like a needle pressed against the tip of my tongue. I almost knew the words. It lit something inside me with warmth, and a longing I didn’t have a name for. A kind of hiraeth—that old Welsh word for the grief of a home you can’t return to, or maybe never knew.

The song repeated a phrase that echoed as I stood still, unable to answer:

“Ulnik uktish na grish ga loon.”

That was when I woke up. My body was soaked in sweat, and the words lingered like smoke in my throat.

I’m unsure what this dream was, but I know it meant something. Was it a memory? A message? A map?

I know I’ve been there before, in another life, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt the next time I visit it in Dream, I will not hesitate to pass through it.