ARTMO MAG

I often have deep and complicated dreams, but I rarely take the time to record them, let alone share them. Yet, something about last night’s dream stayed with me. It wasn’t just the vivid imagery—it was how it seemed to mirror my own life, my current situation, the pressures I’ve been facing. I thought, why not turn this dream into a story? After all, ArtMO Mag was born from a desire to create a space where stories, memories, and the intricate threads of art, culture, and personal experience could come together.

So, here we are, I found myself adrift on a manmade island, somewhere far from the known world. It wasn’t a place marked on any map, yet there I stood, surrounded by the unfamiliar, accompanied by my workmates, as if this strange island were a test of endurance we had agreed upon without fully understanding the stakes. We arrived under the guise of a field trip, but as the hours unfolded, it became clear this journey was not about work. It was about survival, not just of the body, but of the mind, of the soul.

We entered a towering, labyrinthine structure—a building that seemed at once forgotten and alive with its own silent energy. As we stepped inside, the day slipped away, and with it, our sense of direction. What began as a shared experience quickly splintered, and I found myself alongside two founders, separated from the rest, as the night crept in around us. We moved through the decaying halls, searching for something as elusive as purpose. Every turn, every stairwell seemed to pull us deeper into its embrace, like the moments in life when we chase goals only to find ourselves further from clarity.

At one point, we scaled the heights of the building, the way growing steeper, more treacherous. There, at the edge, I stopped. The others pushed forward, but something in me froze—a primal instinct telling me that if I continued, I would fall, perhaps into something far worse than physical death. It wasn’t fear that held me back, but a deeper sense, as though some inner compass had realigned, warning me of the futility of following blindly. So, I turned back. Alone.

As I retraced my steps, the quietness grew louder, filling the space where certainty had once been. And then I saw them—children, living in the shadows of this forgotten place. They appeared as ghosts at first, but their eyes held life, and their voices carried stories of abandonment. Their parents had brought them here, only to vanish when the children’s backs were turned. Yet, despite the desolation, these children had made the building their home. They moved through its passages with ease, as though they had learned to speak the language of isolation, to find comfort in the emptiness.

I listened to them and realized that we all, at some point, are left behind. Abandoned by the certainties we once held, by the dreams that turned into burdens, by people who promised to stay. And like these children, we build homes in the ruins. We learn to live with the loneliness, to make friends with the quiet. But even as they guided me, as they helped me navigate the labyrinth, I couldn’t shake the desire to save them. To take them with me. To offer them a life beyond these walls.

I begged them to leave, to come with me. But they simply smiled, shaking their heads. “This is our home,” they said. It struck me then that sometimes, those who appear lost have already found what they need. They waved me off, and with their farewell came the bittersweet realization that not everyone wishes to be saved. Some souls have found peace in the chaos, while others—like me—are still searching for a way out.

I found the exit, stepping out into the night. The air was heavy with exhaustion, but my founders were there, waiting. They had made it out too, though battered, worn down by the journey. We sat together in silence as the last light of day gave way to twilight. Above us, the sky erupted in fire—missiles streaking across the horizon, an iron dome of defense rising to meet them. It was a spectacle of protection and destruction, a reminder that the battles we fight, both within and without, are never far from the surface.

In that moment, I thought of my father, a figure from my waking life now woven into this dream. He arrived on the island, speaking of a way back. “I’ll take you home,” he said. And yet, home wasn’t as close as I had imagined. The mainland, where our lives once made sense, was not a mere boat ride away. It was a journey—a long, overnight train ride—stretched over time and space.

And there, in the fading light of that island, I realized: home isn’t a place. It’s a state of mind we keep chasing, a feeling we long for when we’re lost. Sometimes, it’s a building full of abandoned children who refuse to leave, content in their isolation. Sometimes, it’s sitting with those who have journeyed beside you, bruised but alive. And sometimes, it’s an endless train ride away, always further than we expect, but never out of reach.