I mixed my time and woke up near 4 A.M.
There was barely any light outside, just the occasional engine growl and car lights projecting the rectangles of my curtains on the ceiling. I stood freezing in my panties and long t-shirt ( I always sleep like this no matter the season) looking out the window at my neighbors dark rooms, asleep and undisturbed.The kettle called from the kitchen.
My guess would be that everyone once or twice in their lives has been caught up in one of those dreams which seem so real that the memory of them, vivid, fresh, moments after you open your eyes is hurtful, like you’ve lost what you had or thought you had.
Its places and people one dreams of, most distant and unknown, yet some with odd familiarity about them. Mostly the people. I’ve spent hours in bed wondering about that me in the dream and why I knew the person, why I felt sadness and why my heart beat so fast I could feel it in my palms, as if I was realer than when awake, everything I felt amplified.
I resent that, being hurt by losing imaginary touch with someone I never knew. But the closeness had been so real it feels worthy of longing after. I doubt I had anything alike with someone in my real life.
We talk but I don’t remember the words only what I felt then when we knew each other, or rather some other me knew him and was dear friends, and shared a tear about some loss of his while fighting inner cravings to lean closer, like that might make it real, make it last.
I felt privileged. I had been given precious time with a person that wasn’t mine and quite possibly couldn’t be. And he smiled, thinking about swimming in the sea in mid-October, because it wasn’t very cold was it? I knew that by his eyes, olive with a hint of black in them, and I trusted him when he said come. So we swam. And I was happy and a little stupidly in love and I hoped he was too. He looked at me in a sort of needy way, like he could use a friend, but also a lover, a feel, to make sure he’s still real, still lives. Then he leaves crushed, the burden unwashed and I float on my back staring at October sun too pale to care, crushed, waking, sweating.
I hate knowing that in just a dream. It makes it harder to shake it off like a morning cough. I wonder why a part of me suffers for the unrealistic.
My tea is bittersweet, dream-like I put less sugar than I usually do. Maybe I needed to taste it real.
In the morning, when I’ve sat too long, I shiver from the change and lack of presence, loss of senses, loss of emotions; robbed by a dream, depraved of the privilege to be fucking fake happy. It hurts and it leaves you a bit hollow. Till the next one.