I woke the other day with my eyes still closed, certain that Matthew was next to me, but when I turned my body to hold him, he disintegrated into a cloud of black feathers. This morning was different. I closed my eyes half an hour after the dawn and fell deeply into dreaming. Someone was with me, someone I’ve never met but know rather well in sidelong ways. We were in a room I used to have and I explained to them that this wasn’t my home but the room my mother used to keep for me. Our interaction was odd and strangely real. My subconscious has undue verism that I can’t escape.
I could almost make a story of what we did, how our bodies shifted to make room for the other on my bed as we lay and we talked, a quiet storm of words. I think we were meeting for the very first time; spending a morning together asleep was the plan. Jetlag and my schedule matching up like a carnival game, all the little ducks shot down bang. He lay on his back and I curled up beside him, pressing my back into his side, his arm my pillow and home. We talked about shelter, how the internet is breeding a new form of interaction that we dubbed digital rain. Taking his hand in mine, I looked down to his fingers and laced mine though, putting it behind me, thinking small self-amused girl thoughts. I began to fall asleep then, in my dream. I could feel the weight of tired muscles pushing me into the bed. When he took my hand to touch more clearly, I stretched out and leaned against him, one leg over his leg. A tiny tense arching acknowledgment was his reaction, inescapably polite, but embarrassingly gratifying nonetheless. Enough for me to twist around and kiss his cheek, in my head laughing at my flash of return arousal. I am a naughty girl. I swept my hair away from his beard and lay myself down on his side. I thought to say, You know it’s not allowed, but didn’t. It would only be stating the obvious. We lay then with legs tangled, stomach to stomach, and fell into sleep, dreaming a new dream, my weight warm and his arms making me welcome.
Not the sort of thing I’m used to when I close my eyes. I’m accustomed to walking, wandering cities, sitting in plazas I’ve never been to and hope one day to visit. I dream of exploring, flying and talking with the other passengers, with details like the colour of my blanket and how my seat doesn’t quite lean back. I dream of the future, moments that haven’t happened yet and never were. There is a beach with white sand out there somewhere and I plan on finding it by accident, by fate. I dream of memories. I dream of smothered impulse chain of circumstance and social physics, not fictional encounters with denied provocation. I am curious as to what my brain is doing, if this sort of thing will continue or if I will drop back into my endless cities, my greek sylph babbling that lends me to endless moments of disphoric deja-vu.
What do you dream of?