This is a very old dream, from the late 70s or early 80s. One I wrote into story form because it was so vivid.

The Hall of the Dead
A dream



He told me to come here, I know it, but I know not how I came by this knowledge. 

I know only that He, my love, my soul-mate (in the terms of those earth-bound and limited to words) wanted me to come here, and I came, seeking him out, in my party dress of azure blue
(or is it aquamarine?) and my tiny dress shoes.

But He is not here, and I must make my way through this
crowded room of somberly clad people.
I must cross this room, and then, only then, will I be able
to find Him.
He is waiting for me, just beyond my vision. He is smiling, because He knows that I have come to seek Him out.

Does He know how truly I seek for Him, or is this yet another ordeal I must pass through to find myself merely a bit closer to Him?
Only the thought that it will at least make me closer makes it bearable for me.

They look at me, these people in browns and blacks, with their loved ones tucked protectively against their bodies. Thus will He hold me, once I reach him, and even now his arm curves in anticipation

He raises a hand to her in encouragement, and smiles, but his eyes are troubled. Yes, this is but another ordeal for her, for the girl, but he knows she will pass it, if she perseveres; if she does not lose sight of her goal, however long it takes her

I step forward, faltering, unwelcome here, but somehow not unexpected. Some of These, They are Watchers. I, too, was once a Watcher, but He came to me and said, "Come, I will show you; I wilTeach you, All of Be-ing. Come."
So it is that I left the safe and somber life of Watching,
 I put on my blue party dress, and came to Seek Him Out. 

But He is not here.
They look, and somewhere someone speaks - a jest - and the listeners laugh, and there is movement, for the Dance is about to begin.

I can see them now, these solemn dancers. They form in rings, and the circles are complete, each alone, but also interlocking. They can change circles in the dance; they can change partners; the partners can take other partners and become Protectors.
The Watchers are in the center; trapped, helpless. They must move where the Dance goes, or they will be LEFT OUT. 

When the music starts, they move with the Dance, because they are of it. Wheels in
wheels, gears in cogs, lock-step, lock-step. The Dance goes on.

I move forward again, winding between the circles, not yet caught up in the Dance. I bump into a dancer, a man whose face I do not know, but whose Self I do. He wears a vest of brown, and a long-sleeved black shirt, and She-Who-He-Protects wears a vivid red, and glows with Life. 

I touch his arm, gently, and apologize, but he averts his face and hurries Her away, where I will not See.

But it is too late; I have known him. He is the father of my best friend, dead many years before I knew her, and She is the one he protects.

I press on, now outside the Dance, searching for my One, taking care not to be caught up in this Dance of the Dead.

Or is it the Dance of Those Left Behind?

Is it, simply, the Dance?