Just a Beautiful Dream
I open my eyes to find myself on the bed, staring at the ceiling, which only the moon softly illuminates. I wake only because something asked me to; I wake only because the night whispered to me. Not startled or alert, I am calm. But I sadly am awake.
I remember only pieces; fragments. I try to close my eyes, but only darkness surrounds me. I have fleeting memories of battles, I've never had. I have sections of my memory, faded and out-of-focus. It's a half-remembered dream. The darkness plays tricks on me. I try to focus, but nothing.
Suddenly flashes of a figure dance. A silhouette of a woman, who seems familiar, comes into focus; back lit to the point of masking her identity. I try to focus again, but the darkness consumes her. Just as her mouth begins to open, she is ripped away into the void. I become frozen-still.
I open my eyes again. "A trick", I think to myself. I stare into the ceiling as if i'm expecting her face just to form from the plaster and let me know who she is.
My breathing is slow and even with the darkness messing with my head, I remain calm. Buddha-like. This begins to worry me. The room becomes darker, as if the moon itself decided it didn't want to see what comes next. The outline of the ceiling's imperfections start to haze and eventually vanish completely.
At this point, I can't tell if my eyes are open or closed, but yet my breathing remains constant. The room is so still, I can hear the slight bass of my heart seem to march away. Further and further away, it seems; softer and softer, until only the darkness remains.
Here, in this place, I am home. I've begun my journey for her here, countless times, and yet she always eludes me. This place, with it's cracked walls, broken windows, and rubble strung about, feels like sanctuary in a world consumed by the never. I want to explain more, but we never get to stay too long. It's just not how this goes.
I step through a door, broken at the half-point; shattered like a mirror. Splinters jetting out in every direction, begging for the taste of blood. I proceed to the staircase and begin my decent. I notice at the bottom of the stairs, among all the debris, is a clean table. On-top, a note. All that is legible is: "...l miss you...".
I step outside and find myself overcome by a cold-chill. Yet never worried, i trek on. I have looked a thousand times in this dream world for her only to be disappointed, time and time again. Yet, I struggle on. I find various travelers who end up not to be her, but yet I've never given up hope.
Hope that one day, she will know who i am. Hope that, i won't just watch her slip away again. Alas, at times, this seems futile. It seems as though she was never reaching out for me, but instead running away. I replay memories inside my head, time and time again, only to understand less and less. Is this the darkness up to it's old tricks?
I have waited for a thousand years, just to hear her voice. I would wait a thousand more, just to have her hold my hand. But her memory is deep inside my mind. Carved into granite, slow to wash away. She is a figure, unlike any other. Not perfect, but neither am I. She is strength where steel is needed, and yet she understands compassion like a soft pillow.
I have found myself writing about her for over a decade. I have written about us, standing together as the world stops spinning and we are but the last two survivors, witness to the end. I've written about her fighting with me, inspiring me to stand and carry-on, long after my body yearns for rest. "Her scream, so loud and solid, it makes the mountains shiver".
She holds power that keeps the days bearable. She reminds me that, even though we may not be able to be together as we want, there's a place where we can be. There's a place where she is the shining example of what true love really is: An unforgiving mess; a whirlwind tornado of affection.
These paths are so worn and my clothes so tattered, I wonder if she would ever recognize me. I stand here in the cross street, the stop-lights dimly surrounding the area, reds and yellows. I look each direction, expecting to see some sort of sign. Some indication on where to go, but only the cool breeze of the night brushes my skin. A quick dance of lightening in the distance sparks my curiosity. I venture on.
Miles down the road, I come to a small town on a beach. I can hear the waves gently lapping on the shore, and for some reason, I hear something muffled in the distance. As I crest the hill near the sand, I see a figure kneeling by the sea. As I approach, I realize, it's her. My beautiful memory.
No words are necessary as I sit by her side. She turns to me, with the moon and stars lighting the area around us softly, and smiles. She whispers things to me, but yet my mind struggles to believe. I'm as cynical as they get and yet i'm trying to accept this. I have looked for so long, and yet here she sits. Here she tells me that I was not the only one who visits this place. She says she has looked for me but found only my footprints in the sand.
We lay back on the beach staring into the sky and exchange our war-stories for hours and even though I do most of the talking, I still feel her smiling. We talk about the good times and we avoid the bad. We tell each-other how we struggled through a world that seemed it would rather tear itself apart, than let us see each-other, even for one night. But for some unapparent reason, tonight, the world, spinning fast, let our paths cross just long enough to be honest, open, and feel what could really be.
I know, it's almost time for me to open my eyes and see the world for what it really is. I try to stare at her face, to ingrain her, into my permanent memory, but she tells me to stop. She says she's uncomfortable knowing that she would just become a face. She begins to tell me, she would rather we cherish our feelings and our time together, than to ever remember who we are on the outside. Its hard for me, but I look back at the stars.
She whispers into my ear, and as the stars become dim, the moon becomes softer, my heartbeat, slower. The waves seem to slow, almost as if the world is coming to a halt. Just before the darkness consumes us again, the last thing I hear, barely audible is: "I love you".
When the morning comes, I see a light so bright, it burns my eyes. I awaken to find myself alone, in my bed. I was only greeted by the morning whispering to me. I am calm, not startled or alert. But sadly, I am awake.
I remember only pieces; fragments. I try to concentrate, but the world refuses. I remember a moment in time. A half-remembered dream. I remember a girl, so beautiful and genuine, she sat next to me while the world stopped spinning and told me she cared.
She is the reason I fight and the reason I write. Though we finally got to share the world, one night, she will forever be the one I chase. She is the most important reason to close my eyes.
|"One night thunder cracked. Mercy backed outside her windowsill.|
Dreamed I was flying high above the trees over the hills."