Dreams

I had a sweetheart once, a long while ago, that moved away. For awhile I thought about going to visit her, but life intervened. This piece is about a dream I had a few days after she left of our "reunion" that would never happen.

Le belle reve

Have you ever had one of those dreams that you not only remember what happened, but you can almost remember what it felt like, smelled like, tasted like?  Have you ever woken up with a smile and a skip in your heart so tangible, so strong and corporeal that you swear you weren’t dreaming?  There’s something ethereal and beautiful about those dreams.  The short wistful glimpses of something that could or would, or maybe even should have been.  Maybe it’s the acquiescent nature of dreams, the knowledge that no matter what goes on in your head at night is temporary, and can represent neither real hopes and aspirations nor true fears and apprehensions.  Maybe it’s the transitory nature of the experience as a whole, your body and mind are in antagonistic frames; while one is shutting down and repairing the damage of the day, healing wounds and recharging batteries, the other is racing through your cognitive journal reconciling new memories with old conceptions.  Or, it could be simply that you can’t inhibit what you dream about.  The impulses and contrivances so suppressed by societal expectations and personal preference are momentarily stifled, leaving you to explore and endeavor into previously untouched territory.  That girl that intimidates you with her extravagant beauty and perceived inapproachability suddenly becomes that girl you can’t get rid of; the boy whose arms you crave for every night, you find yourself waking up beside.  Whatever the reason for our nightly soirees into fantasy, it never ceases to amaze or frighten us with the reality and sometimes vividness of the image or experience.

Mi sueño Linda

“mmmmmm”  It all begins with that noise I make: halfway between a cat’s purr and a dog’s low rumble of satisfaction.  Its an unconscious thing I do, I could be thinking about cheeseburgers and pickle juice (two foods that I definitely believe should never be consumed together), making love on that miniscule stretch of sandy beach I own on that equally minute island of Guam in the south Pacific, or even something as innocuous as debating whether I should tie my shoes with bunny ears or the other way (I don’t know what to call it).  My dream all begins with that sound, I’m sitting in my seat on this half broken down greyhound bus just passing Ellensburg.  Even with my ipod blaring in my ears and less than 3 hours sleep in my blood since the previous week, I’m jittery and impatient, shifting my weight and glancing out the window at regular intervals as if that simple act alone could make the miles, hours, minutes, feet go by faster.  The anticipation isn’t exactly what is driving my anxiousness, rather it’s the underlying fear of absolute rejection that looms over my entire trip east across Washington State, a trip that should have been taken two years ago, should have already had a beginning, middle, and end, should have.  Nonetheless, its happening now, and I must gather every ounce of courage to face the one person on this planet I would like to see the most, the person this is all for, the one that brought me from my house in Las Vegas to Seattle, flying standby and shotgun for nearly eight hours, then from Seattle now to a few miles outside of Ellensburg, Washington; only a couple more hours to go.  I make my sound again, even though I know I’m drawing the attention of my fellow passengers, but who doesn’t attract attention on these buses?  My playlist ends and while searching for a new one, something soothing to get my nerves down before I see her, the sleep deprivation finally overcomes me, right in the middle of deciding between Radiohead and Keane, my head droops and I doze.  Dreaming inside of a dream isn’t really as strange as it sounds, its almost like just changing the channel on your television, or turning the page in your photo album, the scenery changes but nothing really else.  I dreamt that I was eating pancakes, no syrup, not that bad, not too good either though –

My head snaps up as my seatmate shakes me back to waking life.  “I heard you say ‘Moses Lake’? We’re here” –

I step off the bus to the desolate albeit not entirely barren landscape.  The momentary tableau of me gazing out into the horizon is nearly picture perfect with all those Marlboro ads that used to run, except I’m not a cowboy and I don’t smoke.  I thank myself for packing extremely light (just my rucksack with a 2 pair of pants and 3 t-shirts, knife, sewing kit, socks and boxers, and ipod) and begin the somewhat peaceful hump into town.  By the time I get there, my body is warm enough to strip my jacket off and stuff it into my ruck, my muscles are thankful for the cold December air that kisses my skin, and I know I draw strange looks from people I pass, there’s snow on the ground.

First order of business is done, I’m in Moses Lake, onto the next task: getting to her house. 

I rummage in my pockets for the well-crumpled scrap of paper with her address written on it, I looked it up and wrote it down back in Vegas, how far could it have gone?  I find it in my a*s-pocket, with all the loose change and lint, and call a cab, I’m easy enough to find: almost 6 feet tall, 200 pounds of muscle, short-sleeved t-shirt outside in the snow.  The cab driver correctly assumes that I’m a city boy, chuckles to himself almost stereotypically how crazy kids are these days (wow, really?) and coaxes the taxi out onto the road.  The drive isn’t very long, but I still have time to collect my racing thoughts.  I have a rather vague idea of where she lives, and I know sort of what she looks like from pictures, I know what she sounds like, but I don’t know if she’ll want me, if she’ll have me, if she’ll even let me stay.  I’ve come too far to turn back now, no matter how easy it would be, maybe I’m here because on some level I just need physical comfort and touch.  Cuddling would be just what the doctor ordered for heartbroken old me, kissing, always a plus, making love? I know I still love her, so is that so hard to foresee?  Turns out it is: I am not beautiful by any measure of the term.  Standing a stocky five feet, ten inches tall, my upper body is built like a boxer: rippling muscles and broad shoulders, hard carved chest and belly, knots of strength and medal shaped into human form.  My legs are that of a shorter man, doctors have told me that I have the body of a man six feet tall, but the legs of a 5-footer: they’re short, but slender, elegant striker’s legs, only slightly haired and just as dexterous with a soccer ball as my hands were with a baseball.  My hands are steady as they have always been, surgeon’s hands, and my face is only a bit older than I would like it to look, neither handsome nor homely, but not beautiful to anyone.  While I take stock of my physical attributes, I know that I’m just trying to justify my impending rejection to myself.  Of course she would turn me away, going through the motions was just a formality.  The car slows to a stop, the cabbie mumbles the price and I hand over what I’m sure is almost twice the bill, but am too caught in my own ruminations to notice:

I’m here at her house, what do I do now?
 

Reviews

[AJChallenger]

Try to break this up, it's difficult to read a large hunk of text. If you could add more dialogue to increase the flow I think it would help. There is a popular saying "Show, don't tell." It means show us what is going on through action, speech, rather than blatant description. This has a lot of potential, though, good work.

[Bhavya Kaushik]

This story is based upon a very interesting subject and I really enjoyed its plot the most.
Your words flowed very well and grabbed my attention a lot, I was constantly into your story while I was reading it.
Overall, a great piece of writing it is...
Thanks a lot for sharing it here,

Keep writing...