Is there no pillow for my head to find repose, no hall of redemption where I lay down the sorrow of confusion?

The dreaming of memory is a very strange thing. I have been puzzled. Here is how. In my very early adulthood (if you can call it that)
I spent a fair amount of my time as a transient nomad who was on the lamb from the police. My memory of that time is fuzzy, but I do have a recollection of all the towns...
Except one.

I can see it so clearly in my mind, and have been on it's wintry main streets a few times in my dreams, for it was in the Autumn​ or the winter months that I traveled. I recall that it was so enchanting to me that I nearly stayed, though I was only passing through.

I, with my back pack, somehow was there on the main township road, and though I don't remember my mode of arrival it must have been by bus and I on a layover with some time to wander.

In my mind it feels I could have been coming back to Shreveport on a plane from the military.

It could have been on any number of exursions. I was always running and moving about.

What I remember was checking in to a local drop in center. I had been told to check my bag in one place on the street, perhaps at a traveler's aid, and I was given a cup of coffee, while I waited on a check-in at another location which was a hostile or shelter.

I meandered about the wide boulivard  that was edged with still melting snow.
The local youth hostile offered one free overnight stay.

I cannot remember if I stayed, or if I was able to be sponsored a bus ticket out of town, or met another kind stranger who offered a ride out of the town.

I cannot remember what State the town is in. I remember nothing else about it except I feel that I had been there twice, once with a traveling companion, and once again, later on my own, which was the time I recollect on the street thinking that this village might make a good home, should I ever want to begin again, if I could ever be afforded the chance, or really need a place to hide. That is if it weren't middle America in the early 1990's and very dangerous for a gay boy to be travelling alone in these towns.

Here is the part that makes no sense, except for why I cannot remember it. I can't possibly have ever been in such a place, for it is off the path of highway 55 on which I always travelled.

I thing I told myself I would go back to the town one day, when I was in need of a place to visit, but I cannot remember the name of the place. I cannot be sure it exists at all, but in my mind.

Still, the arcitecture of the buildings were different that the generic houses in Shreveport - almost like a New England town.

All I can fathom is that there are pieces of me out there that are somehow still lost, or that I chose to leave behind, rather morosely because a place so perfect and normal  could never be my home. I was but a visitor.

I cannot even be sure I was myself​.
Maybe it was all just a dream that I had about a dream I once had.

Maybe if I were to have the experience again, I would grab hold to something and anchor myself to such a beautiful place.

Maybe I wouldn't be so afraid to stop running, that I could stay a while and talk to some of the people. As I've said, it was cold, so nobody was out.

I hate these bittersweet moments of recall that I cannot decern fantasy from reality. All the same, I do not think I would choose to give them up. The minds is the greatest scape across which to gaze.

I wonder if there could be some sort of collective vagabond consciousness that allows us the peak into each other's experience whenever we are at some sort of life precipice? Sometimes I feel as though my thoughts are not my own.

Even insanity has it's moments of perfection.

I am going back to sleep.