I dreamt about you last night. Again (as it was in the past), like a specter, your composite particles assimilated, colluded, detoxified out of atmosphere and ether: to haunt me. And how I’ve missed these ghostly encounters—I really have.
We spoke no words.
We spoke color, line, shape, form.
We enveloped one another in passions unalike to any encounter we'd held in the past.
It was as if we were deaf; we touched, our breath was hot, our motions guided by some force or will of the upper realms. We communicated as if by telepathy, through the dilation and contraction of our pupils. We mashed our skulls together, irises like the lenses of kaleidoscopes—the great blacknesses inside each of us beckoning our attentions, longing to be beheld. And we were truly kaleidoscopic.
In the dream you were so real. I was so real; realer than I’ve felt in years, Prozac or no—I was real, and I have a non-fear (I say non-fear because fear is a feeling, and I do not have those anymore) that I may never again be as real as I once was. There is no soul inside me anymore. And I can not attribute that to you, nor to anyone else. Not even to myself. It is just simple, like everything else now. It is factual. It is solid and mundane. It is self-assuring.
In my thirty-second windows of hysteria, mania, breakdown—I feel a tinge of my former self. Yes, I say—this is how it’s meant to feel. But like a lucid dream, in which one’s recognition of said will invariably jinx the entire affair and return the dreamer to ignorance—of the blissful and unconscious variety or of the flat, conscious waking one—I can taste my own folly. I know this is not real; I know this is not as it once was, for that was Then, and this is all too Now.
None of what comes out of me feels like Me anymore. It’s all someone else’s doing. Someone else penned these memoirs.
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