Something or Other
I was in the near future and some things were wrong, and other things were right. I kept trying to hold his hand for reassurance, eventually he gave it to me — but was it out of his own will, or was I forcing his hand to grasp mine so tightly it might break to make up (and makeup) for all those times he couldn’t before? I opened my mouth to tell him I had dreamt of him before, over and over and over, in guilt and in repentance, but the words wouldn’t come out — and when they did, it didn’t sound right. Just a garbled noise of static that he tilted his head to. Maybe it’s not something I’m meant to tell him, but I felt desperate to.
I was kind to all those he surrounded himself with, though supposedly my eyes were misty and downcast and forlorn — that’s not the right word at all. Maybe this should better go in my diary? I’ll repost it there, definitely. Look, you’re here! Anyhow, I was kind to them, which he was surprised by. I asked him why would that ever be a surprise — even though the answer was clear as day, not based on his experiences but completely imagined and dreamt of in our reality, self—admitted and admitted to the world, though it doesn’t change the fact he was surprised, it doesn’t change, but I had, and he had, and we both had — he said ‘Nevermind’ in a tone that almost sounded angry, and who could blame him?
It was never that deep — In the dream, the me that I piloted, faulty and couldn’t listen properly to what I wanted, deviant and lifeless, I felt feverish and my vision would go black before I’d awake somewhere else with him, and one more thing, one more entity, not always but often there. Some thing beside him, in front of me, which I felt held his hand better than I ever did, but at the end of the day it was a thing.
Dreams are dreams, but I awoke with a gasp and felt tired and boneless immediately — as though my mind was overcome with grief, all over again, I was suddenly skinny and sick and with blood so thin it could be paper. Draw into it what you’d like, what I’d like, what he’d like, but it’s still blood and not paper so what difference does it make.
Point is — I awoke being unable to tell if it was a good omen or a bad omen, and that hurts more than anything. Clarity is something I’ve always appreciated, and yet my mind won’t let me have even that. My mouth is sour and sweet and all that comes out of it is sin or maybe something else?
There’s something coiling these ribs like a snake, causing them to snap and the body to crumple and crumble.
It’s all nonsense. Did I even dream at all last night?