Entering a large rectangular room, giant hearth on one side, assorted sofas and chairs in the middle.  At one end is a massive credenza stretching to cover the whole wall.  Where a mirror might be there reaches to the ceiling a profusion of carved animals and birds interspersed now and then with mirrors and paintings.  The credenza and all the carvings are made of very dark wood, so dark that details are murky.  One of the paintings near the top, near the ceiling, is just large letters that almost seem to spell out a word but I couldn't read it.  JUNG, maybe?  I recently bought a book about him.  It is hung upside down.
One of the other walls is festooned with musical instruments, especially stringed instruments.  Many of them are unfamiliar to me.  One of these is a harp, but made of dark wires.  It is hanging from the ceiling and the bottom, also wire, is curved upwards like a rocking horse base. 
A crowd of people have entered the room, moving randomly about.  I pick up the harp and find that I can play it reasonably well.  Partly because I can see lighter areas on the wire strings where other people have put their fingers.  I play some arpeggios and scales.  A policeman of some sort strides purposefully through the crowd, ignoring everyone.  With some apprehension I play more loudly, thinking that he will assume I'm innocent.  Because see?  I can play the harp.

I'm touring a university campus unfamiliar to me.  I'm with a few other people I don't really know, and the tour guide is a professor at the university who is new to me, but I know he has a reputation for brilliance and being difficult.  He's showing us around and he and I are getting on quite well.  We finish the tour and he walks us to a large car parked outside on a field.  The sunlight is very bright and suffuses the field.  All around us there are other people walking on their business but there also are many small children running happily about.

The tour guide gets us into the car and leans into to the window to speak to me.
"Do you enjoy having all the children around," he asks.
"Yes," I reply honestly.  "I don't get to see many little kids any more and it's fun to see them, especially so happy.  (Or something very like that.)
"You know," he says  "the man who plays the violin for the university is retiring."
"He's Ray Bradbury," one of my companions says.
I look at the tour guide, who is walking away.  I realize he is suggesting I take the position of violinist for the university.
I call after him:  "I don't play the violin!"
He turns just enough to say, quietly:  "I think you can do it."
I turn away from the window, instantly tormented by this.  My chest is convulsed with sorrow and physically knotted up inside.
"Go ahead," I cry  "Stab my heart with an ice pick!"
And I fall into the lap of one of my companions and weep harsh painful tears.
I wake with my heart pounding and chest heavy with distress and sadness.

Missed chances in life?  Very intense dream.