Dream

18th March,

For quite a time have I been at a loss for words. I have intended to write, really, and yet, every time I dare so, the words leave my head blank; feelings leave me empty…lost. Thrice this month now have I been utterly disappointed, the causes of which I have no pleasure to write nor dwell upon. When I began to write about her, about us, she must have known…or felt. For by degrees my dreams of her became obscurer than ever. Often, I wake up feeling I’ve dreamt of her, and yet such dreams I can no longer recall. One might ask, how can I say that my dreams about her have become obscure? I only feel, but I am not sure. I can never be quite sure, for I can’t even recall. Perhaps that woman has left me already?

moon_large

To this I’d say I must have emboldened myself into some sort of neurosis, for such is the only name I can attribute to this, my dilemma, that perchance define it. This dilemma which I’d hardly even call one. This growing addiction to the notion of her being there—always there. And yet, perhaps I also love the idea of my having gone quite neurotic. God, how I jest. I loathe myself.

Nonetheless, now I write again. Alas! I write not without confusion, for she refuses now to come by. I must have tarried longer, that perhaps she had grown tired. Yet, ’round she is. I close my eyes and there her presence looms. Just as recently when I had a most disappointing day—that circumstance that lead one to sleep. Hmm. That, I remember clearly.

Distinctly, whilst still awake and ’round people, I was agonizing over some damned tears which I’d say I have triumphed over—but soon did drop barely after I tucked myself to bed. Scarcely have I closed my eyes whence I found myself transported under such a starry night. Such trees there were that towered one after the other, but some I should think bear the same height. Their leaves made quite a dense ceiling that obscured some of the stars, but allowed blotches of holes as only added weight to the beauty of the sky. These ceilings however, have been separated by a wide stream which mirrored the sky—moreover that moon yonder; that danced and glittered at her glory. How proud she must be, that moon. I’d call her Luna.

Before this I must add, that though I find myself now quite neurotic, I have forgotten about her that night. Hmm. Is it possible? I wonder. Yet must I own also this habit of denying myself something: a feeling, a thing. I wished to deny myself some tears, for I loathe the cause of it. Still did they fall—but behold the stream! That thing that glimmers. And what could I possibly do but drown those tears forever? So, did I submerge. The water encompassed me, rushed on all sides, from down under…and I sank deeper… deeper… and deeper till I could hold my breath no longer. Hence, I rushed myself, up gasping for air. The wind blew cold, the night whimsical and balmy. Silhouettes of those trees were made thicker and darker than the night sky.

But did they drown, my tears? No.

“Why do you cry?” Whispered so suddenly a voice I had never once heard before.

I turned, drowning my surprise awhile; for there appeared before me a face—that of a woman’s I have never seen once. Her eyes, under such a night, were gentle; the hue of which rendered me doubtful between black and the darkest of brown. For surely, they were neither gray, nor green, nor blue. She had long, or at least below-the-shoulder-length of raven hair that highly contrasted her complexion made luminous by the silver moon. Her face was neither small, nor big; but agreed artfully to the rest of her features. Her lips I need not say, neither thick nor thin; but has some sort of character to it I cannot perceive. But so were her eyes that by then assumed an expression of mirth. Why?

Here I must own I staggered in response. Nonetheless, I replied in the negative and asked in turn how she could say so? Fair lady that she was, and woman that I am, I could not cease gazing upon her whilst ever gently moving ashore. Only, she beheld me as I beheld her. Gently, she squeezed my hands and said, “Even a drop of tear can be so easily distinguished amidst an ocean, dear.”

“Hence?” I dared not understand, for then I remained fixed on my spot, afloat and in mute admiration of her eyes which were so captivating.

“Who are you?” I ventured to ask.

“A truce, dear. I’ll tell you my name if you tell me why you’re sad.”

“Hmm. Never mind, for I am not sad. Nor did I cry.”

“You deny it then.” She smiled. “But not only that, you deny me the pleasure to converse with you freely. You deny something of yourself.”

To this I could not help but laugh a bit, for surely, she could talk and make me listen even if I won’t—knowing there was but she and I alone. Yet, as I laughed I found myself in complete darkness. There no longer was the sky, nor the trees, nor the feeling of being encompassed by the stream. There though, the utter knowledge of rain, its presence made manifest by the roof and panes…

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3:oo a.m

11th February,  

display_imageI closed my eyes again, and this time I did not have long to wait. First it was sort of a tiny dot, that gradually enlarged by itself just as an ink spreads on paper. It was moving; and by “it” I mean her silhouette. “Her” because that silhouette was a woman’s, though I never did see her face, nor hear her voice. But she talks to me. And I have reason to believe she’s blind. It has been a while since I admitted, but perhaps, permitted, her into my company. Why? No reason. No, I do not know how to divulge my reason. I’ve always been solitary in my dreams. I have killed people. I’ve dreamt of a baby—our baby; mine and that man that I like, though he was not included in that vision. I find it amusing that everything seems real during a dream. And so did she, when once I was dreaming, the origin of which I cannot remember, only distinctly that I dreamt I was asleep and was lying on my side, and that I turned suddenly only to feel a certain presence at the foot of my bed. She was sitting there, and I felt her eyes poring over me. I opened mine eyes and she was gone; the darkness of the room all ’round being the only “thing” that welcomed my sight. I felt myself sweating and my heart beating fast. I badly needed air, hence so roused myself, and once the window opened, let the wind flow within. 

I dared not go back to bed. Her presence felt so real that I never even once forgot her. Not even with the days gone by; though I don’t think about her in public, it feels almost as if subconsciously, she’s always there. It is something I did not notice at first, but at length, I have acquired the habit of closing mine eyes whilst imagining her face. No, I do not contradict myself for indeed, I did not see her, not even recently—but I feel her, and always there is this aching feeling that somehow, I know her face. 

I closed my eyes and there she was. She came. Or I came. I did not have long to wait. She does not know that I’ve resolved to write about her. About us. There she rocks herself, seemingly. And here I sit. It must be her bed. I looked at where I knew she was, but she wasn’t really there. Only the rocking chair. It faces the window, which looks on towards what appears to be a prairie. There are trees visible, but they are so tiny, hence they must be so far away. At length she spoke to me and asked whether it was possible to reach the stars? “No doubt, not”, she added. 

But then again, I cannot ascertain the quality of her voice. I hold only the certainty that she spoke. Anyhow to her query I did not reply; she did not need an answer. 

I wonder if I’m going crazy, but I love her company. I don’t understand myself but somehow I know she’s blind, as I have before mentioned. Although this stands against that first instance that I dreamed of her whence I felt her piercing gaze. I asked her whether she’s blind once, but she did not answer. Yet after that, through a vision, a face was shown me, blindfolded, except I plainly perceived the same face’s sockets being empty. How so? I do not know. 

’twas also through my habitual closing of mine eyes that sometimes result to slumber that once I found myself inside a carriage, looking on to the night. She was there, but also not there. I imagine her peering through the same window when she asked, “Do you think it possible to follow that moon yonder, and be directly under it?” 

“W-what? No—no.” I answered. I was then confused and therefore did not know what to say. I never considered anything of the kind except that I look at the moon for I find her so beautiful. Sometimes the trees obscure her, sometimes the clouds, but she emerges more beautiful than when I last saw her. 

“We could travel all night. Night here does not end.” 

“Hence our travel will never end.” I chuckled, instinctively turning as though I were talking to someone visible—but I found her not. And yet somehow, I know she chuckled too, perhaps smiled. 

Next thing I know I’m wide awake, in front of my mirror. My hair was half done. I’ve become thinner. How? Oh, I remember. I’ve not been eating right. But this I must add, I am better now…

18th December, 

 

Dearest Ellis,

 

Your letter seems to me to indicate that while you want my opinion, you also don’t want me to entertain notions of judging said person. Which gives me cause to wonder: are we talking about a real person here? Nonetheless, you’ll have my response. 

First of all, ‘love’ is a powerful thing though I don’t quite believe it. I don’t have any cause to; but of passion, yes. Second, you put me at odds when you wrote—and here I quote, “What if one falls in love? What if that one were you?” I need not say that I was amused, and still am. I simply cannot imagine myself falling in love. And lastly, if I were to have a friend who has had the same sort of history… well, what of it?  “supposedly” it’s something I know nothing about, yet at the same time it’s something I need to consider. Given this, I should say I cannot judge the man merely by his past. If I were to consider a man’s past first before I offer him my friendship, then I can never make friends. It also goes by saying if I were to learn of such a man’s history, I will thank myself for being wary, but it will not mean an end to our friendship.

ple

Of Shirley, I should say everybody loves, and if not, respect her save for lesser men. But I’d like to own that I only read, I don’t contemplate relating to characters—even those of high import. That which you mentioned, a much graver case—it would give you a lighter heart and mind if you cease to nurse it. 

Alas! It’s my turn to wonder dear, pray tell me your thoughts regarding that question of yours. Business is, as usual, exciting… I’d say unpredictable. I’ll remain positive anyhow. 

I have always noticed this, in your letters, and I will say it now: you seem to have a very restless spirit, as I myself do. Perhaps, you would consider going with me to – – – -. it’s a very exciting place that I bet you’d find very interesting should you decide to come. I assure you it’ll give your spirit rest. Kidding aside, it amuses me that you seem to like debating within yourself. Truth is, it gives me pleasure when you ask for my opinion. I urge you to keep doing so as it gives me chance to reflect on things I don’t normally consider. 

 

Yours, 

Gabriel 

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11th December, 19– 

 

Gabriel dear, 

    What does Life demand from you this time? I trust, surely, as everybody else will, you’ll get on strongly. I have tried your suggestion but it clearly isn’t for me. The matter of executing it alone did not suit me, I shall have to try something else. But never mind that. How’s that enterprise of yours going? I’m afraid I have come off rather strongly last time, I’m sorry. Do remind me though if I ever over-step some bounds. 

   Indeed, I have read and re-read the book thrice. I love it. There is something particularly about Shirley’s character that I can relate to on a personal level—which is something I won’t discuss yet at the moment. I have other things in mind for you. But I’d love to know, which one of the characters do you think you can relate to? 

   I have been wasting my time over silly nonsense. I’m ashamed—but one does get distracted a lot, easily, at least me. A lot of times I do something I want but after a minute or so get the feeling of wanting to do something else… I have been wondering though, and I have a question for you. You may think of it as something more like a gathering of opinion. It’s a series of “what if’s”, and, to get to the point, here are some of it. 

   Since of course, one does not know another person’s unabridged past except that of one’s self alone, what if one falls in love? What if that one were you? Suppose you have fallen for someone who was once a thief in her own household? Suppose she has stolen a very big amount of money? Surely that sets her off as someone who has a tendency to betray someone’s trust. But what if that were all in the past, meaning that she has changed(?) or wished to? 

  I imagine you would wonder, or at least a very distinct thought within me retorted: “How can you say that? Surely if she cares enough for a person, then she’d never betray that said person’s trust. Otherwise, such a person never mattered. She may have tendencies, but not to the ones that she truly cares for.” 

  But I dare say I imagine her nature as that of a person who, indeed, knows how to care—knows its pleasures, but that there is this other side that simply never fails to take place. And please do note that she notices her mistakes—a bit too late, however. She has urges, as we all have. And as we both know, such urges, sometimes, drive us crazy if we don’t appease them. 

   I have, in mind, an example of such a character—and it is thus: way back when such a person was much younger, she had a friend who, one day, showed her something that instantly got her attention. Let’s say that something was a lovely little purse. Do note that she was a child then; and children, (some if not all) as we both know, have this tendency to want what another child has. So, she observed her friend for a time, and finally, when that friend of hers wasn’t looking, she stole it. 

   Here, I’d be glad to remind you once more that such an instance was in the past. Let’s regard it as part of her darker nature which, once realized as she got older, ever since she has tried to dismantle. Also, such an act is part of her history that you “supposedly” know nothing about. It may or may not complicate matters to you but I felt I needed to provide an example. Truth is, I have a much graver (if such a word exists) case in mind, but I cannot bring myself to write it, for considering it alone makes me feel like I’m betraying someone. 

   Lastly, I have mentioned “urge”–this is one of those urges, this matter that I wish to ask of your opinion about, that would soon drive me crazy if I don’t get an answer. You interest me so I’m curious as to what your opinion would be. 

 

Fondly, 

Ellis 

 

P.S. this correspondence of ours clearly isn’t one of those silly nonsense I talk about. Take care always! 

Chère

“Something always brings me back to you, it never takes too long.”

This will never be the sweetest letter written to someone special, I know. But by dint of good Fate, I have made a very sweet mistake—that is, when I found you. 

 It was the last time I dreamt of you—a tale I’d rather keep to myself. And yet, last as it was, you have imparted me a smile that turned the dream into such a very…sweet…memory. You ceased not from crossing my mind—not after that, not even before. But always. Always… You have built a home for yourself deep within this sorry heart of mine that even when we no longer talk, I’ll always long for you, and wish to converse with you. 

 gw

I never meant to care, I swear. Never thought I would. But I did, anyway. 

gwapoa

 I do not wish to contend for your attention, yet truly I long for your affection; but here I’ll stop. Dear, just know that it is not because I decided to stop caring–I can never stop such a strong feeling; rather, that it’s because I do not have the power to, and I know it’ll only destroy both me and you. Already I have failed myself—I do not wish to fail you. 

2:42 am

832b288bcdcc0722e1c5f546b930c23f‘twas an occasion marked by the absence of sound; a calm, wispy night. Here and there bursts of laughter ensue, strangers gather ‘round tables and talk of things I know not what; there’s that old dame with an infant on her arms—a smile she bestowed, and vanished. Whilst I… Oh, I am with these faceless friends, with whom I know not what to say; they seem to be talking all at once. Across there he is—strange, but I know. Hell, he must be having such a good time; a smile slowly creeps up my veins. Everything seems to go on forever—the muted glam, senseless and faceless friends which, amidst, only his face registers on my mind. Then, alas! It happened so fast—a tumult caused by that man. I know him—but he does not know me. ‘Well, who am I anyway?’, and so thinking that, I dared not watch, and kept my head bowed, deigning my fingers to do something. It’s either I, who, am in an uproar, or the people ‘round—for, as he advanced, all fell silent… suddenly I felt a hand touch my head, and a voice said, “sorry,” rather playfully. I dared not, yet couldn’t help, but look up—and there he was: strands of my hair he touched…till I felt the side of my face his fingers brushed, as he uttered, “There you are.”