I once fell in love with a girl. She was a dreamer and she made me feel like I was her dream. I couldn't dream. I'd spent my life trying to dream but was only able to live in that place of a dream through a pen and a piece of paper. So I gave her the only dream I knew how to give. I gave her words. I didn't imagine that words would ever be requite enough for a dream but she took them from me with patient, gentle and receiving hands and she made them her own. She held them and looked at them adoringly, like the dream that you have, which you share with no one, but long to tell every one. We were that dream. Our words were secrets, each one a new weave in the beautiful pattern. Every action another colour that shone different to the other. Every look stretched beyond the horizon to that place we know exists but cannot see and do not know where it is or how to get there. And just like those lovers who sit at a beach and watch the sun rise from the sandy, damp dunes and wonder what lies beyond and if they can make it, we did. But there is a small fissure, a hair's width or less that sits between a dream and reality, much the same as the one between the sky's end and the horizon. We didn't make it. When our time came to end I wondered what to say, what to give, what to want. Words are something that you can't take back and you cannot take back a dream either. I tried to think of some last words to give as my final dream for her but I could only reaccount ones already fallen off the edge of the world. Goodbye said too little. I thought to tell her that I still loved her but still loved is not a dream. It's only the echo of the tiny speck disappearing into the dissolving horizon that no one can hear. So I said nothing and walked away from her wondering if you can live in a dream forever, believing that the sun is always rising. A few steps from her I turned over my shoulder and looking at her in her mellowing, sleepy, crazy, beautiful eyes I whispered, 'keep dreaming' and then kept walking. I'm not sure if she heard me.
memories & previous plans
- ▼ August (7)