Nighttime dreams are fragile. If we allow our minds to revisit them too often, or cling too tightly to their ambiance - they eventually disintegrate like ancient papyrus. Sometimes, if we're lucky, a few are potent enough to leave a soft aura that follows us around all day - a warm, cosy memory that we can run to when reality becomes messy and the afternoon feels uneven.
I had the best dream last night. I hope its nourishing milky images will last throughout the evening. I won't go into intricate detail - as with most dreams it was deeply personal and it would not make sense to anyone outside my silly head. It involved the one who got away. The blue eyes from that
day, a little over 10 years ago now, were present. He and I were so happy. Silently happy in a noisy room full of strangers, and so at ease in our silence, as though we had known each other in several lifetimes. And for once...for once I was not afraid of happiness. I didn't feel that anxious bird flying around my rib cage, and the cadet-grey sadness, the one that's almost always in my peripheral vision, was nonexistent. If only reality, with its sharp edges and garish light, could retain such a soft cadence. For a moment, which seemed like a dazzling mere three minutes, the universe itself was purring.
This morning I cocooned myself inside the smoky remnants of my dream and savoured as much hazy bliss as possible. My early companions, aside from Niles (the portly cat), were a strong cup of creamy coffee and a tender scone. With an early chill in the air, I spent the better half of the morning reliving something I'd never actually live through with someone I'd never officially met (yet?). It was lovely.