I've been dreaming about Backrooms my entire life.

Some thoughts on seeing a reoccurring dream in a hit movie.

Warning: Mild Backrooms spoilers ahead.

My first adult apartment was a two-bedroom on the third floor of a well-kept building in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. This was before the area got too cool and overpriced. I shared the place with a roommate and it was pretty huge as far as New York apartments on the salaries of two fresh-out-of-college office assistants went. As long as we didn’t mind the occasional bipolar meltdowns of the older Polish woman who owned the building and lived on the first floor, it was an ideal setup.

Not long after I moved in, I went to sleep and had a dream. In the dream I was in my apartment. Everything was normal, the way it was in real life. My framed Shaun of the Dead poster was there and my record collection was there and my shitty IKEA futon was there. But next to my bookshelf I saw a door I had never noticed before. I opened the door and on the other side was a gigantic, fully furnished space. It was like an entire other apartment, decorated like a retired Florida couple’s living room in the 90s. Muted pastel colors, bright light, way too many sectional couches everywhere. Couches that were pressed right up against each other. So many couches that it wasn’t practical. There was barely room to walk. This giant space had just been sitting there in perfect condition but entirely unused.

I have been having some version of this dream my entire adult life. I find a space I didn’t realize had been hiding in plain sight the entire time. Open a door and there it is. Every time I have this dream it fills me with the same mixed feelings. On one hand, it’s exciting. A whole new space! How will I decorate it? What will I use it for? So much room to do activities, etc. At the same time I’m kicking myself for not finding it sooner, regretting all the months my life could’ve been completely different if I’d just noticed that door.

Then I wake up and realize it wasn’t real. Disappointment creeps in, the same kind that comes from having a dream about being able to fly or finding a billion dollars. Fuck. It was just a dream. Back to my regular apartment. Back to my regular life.

For years I’ve been trying to piece together What It All Means. What is my subconscious trying to tell me with this dream? My scientific analysis, which is based on an educated guess I’ve made by judging it against my own neuroses, is that I am afraid of my own unrealized potential. I am paranoid that I’ve been wasting so much time in my tiny world because I was too blind or lazy or stupid to explore what else was out there. My apartment represents my finite life and the area behind the door is the vast unexplored unknown.

This tracks. One of my biggest anxieties in life is that I am not doing enough. Most times, I am, in fact, not doing enough. But even when I am being productive, I am wondering what comes next or what else I could be doing. Friends will tell me I’ve done pretty well for myself, that I’ve written a bunch of books and that I should be proud, etc. But I’m not. I’m constantly worried about what I’m not doing. About doors I’m not opening. About bigger rooms that might exist somewhere, just beyond my reach. This is how I’ve interpreted this dream every time it’s entered my mind for the last 20 years.

So when I saw Backrooms, the acclaimed psychological thriller debut from 21-year-old wunderkind director Kane Parsons, something resonated on a subconscious level.