Dream-catcher: Write something inspired by a recent dream you had.
I don’t sleep. Every night, every dream, every second under the veil, I can see your face all over again; I can see each minuet detail of every facial expression you’ve ever made contorted into one hideous disfigurement of the love you used to represent to me. You come in closer towards my face and do what I can only comprehend as kiss me on the cheek. There is no sensation from it; there is no feeling like there used to be. A part of my mind seems to remember this feeling, like a wind chime remembers a tune after each breeze of wind, but it doesn’t stick onto the conscious level and in the end, only a distant hum can be heard from the wind hitting the chimes.
I miss you. I know that is what my dream is telling me. There isn’t a hidden message in it. Explanation need not be Freudian because the answer is very clear and right there. I miss you. During the day, aside from daydreams that carry me on a treadmill placed in a pit of mud, I can ignore it and just try to move on; It is only when I sleep that I truly can see your face again and here your innocent laugh. Love is the painful process that has recycled my brain into nothing. To cry that it is unfair is clique, but to say that it isn’t is ignorance.
Every sentence she spoke and the words she learned to use so perfectly to form the exact statement I wished to hear, melt in my dreams. I can see the physical words, drenching the floor around me taking the walls with it, and with walls of thoughts crumbling, the viscosity of your words cling to me pulling me down further into your words; and I wonder if I suffocate here in your words, would I die in my sleep like I would in my dream. There is no help shaking them off and like seed pods stuck to wool socks, your words attach themselves to me and soon begin to sprout and root me to the floor. Every thing you’ve ever said to me bounds me to the place in my head that is killing me.
I wake up the same as I do every morning; the only thing that changes is that each day I wake up it becomes more painful than the day before. There is no gauge that is showing me how much longer I can go before the pain and the memory just become too much for me to bear. Nothing seems that real anymore to me, not even your mother. She tries her hardest everyday to be there for me but I can see even in her that she’s crushed physically; she’s a waif; a drawn up figure with nothing of value in a 3 dimensional world because of her habitual morning cocktails. We both have our methods of handling each night, but I couldn’t tell you who’s was healthier.
Every night I hope the same thing – that my dreams aren’t the last place I will see you.