I wake up slowly from a dream I was having about walking along railroad tracks near the apartment in Rockville. I’m laying on my left side looking out the window. It is a bright blue sky sunny day. The colors outside are deep and intense. Green leaves on a tree branch overhanging the window stir slightly in a breeze, against that clear blue sky.

I am awake, but clearly, so I think, not completely awake. Because I know two things: there is no window on the wall I am facing in my bed, and my eyes are closed.

This, I think, is interesting. I look carefully out this window that is not there, through eyes that are closed. The detail in the things I see through that window, especially in the gently moving leaves, is stunning. Everything outside that window is crystal clear and sharp. And I am fully aware that my eyes are closed.

I think through it some more, keeping my eyes closed, wondering what happens next, and how is this possible when I know I am awake, and that my eyes are closed. And as I do the scene outside the window begins to lose focus and blur slightly. Then more. Then more. Until I finally give in and open my eyes.

There is no window. I am lying on my left side looking at the closet doors on that side of my bedroom, which is dark because it is still not quite morning. I am aware of no transition between dreaming and being awake. It feels as if I was awake the entire time. But I couldn’t have been. Not totally.

This is not the first time this has happened. A week or so ago I was laying in bed and seeing the room I had when I was a teenager still living with mom in Rockville. And it was the same thing: I knew my eyes were closed, and I knew I was seeing the bedroom I used to have, not the one I have. It was less surprising than the experience this morning because I have often dreamed of being in that bedroom. But it was still a strange feeling to be seeing it through eyes I knew at the time were shut.