I hate dreams. I hate it’s imposing truth. The verisimilitudeness. I hate it how it scrounges all my inner desire and disturbs the illusory calm that I ever try to obtain.
What has happened?
Well she has aged for once. So was I. And, this time she has really matured. How can I tell? She confounded in me. Her love for me the very first time in the most serene and surreal moments of all my dreams.
Does it suffice to have a vicarious love story that’s spun by my subconscious?
Like Nolan ask I – ‘who are you to say which is which?’
For even dreams have the hiccups of reality. I couldn’t take her on a ride. As we strolled together the corridors of our school. My heart didn’t race, my legs didn’t tremble. Somehow I knew we belong together. Yet, I was a little ill prepared to handle it so cool. On the way to seek her friend some help, we separated. Only to reunite moments later, her warm scolding embrace. This very scene I’m trying expound has been on my mind ever since I have laid eyes on her. A man is lucky to have a women who hurts with love.
She has taken her time to choose. I don’t blame her for hesitating the first time around. If not for her doubt. If not for the pain that we endured. We mustn’t have come to such a place of strength and inner peace.
Now I tremble, for she lives in these very words and I mustn’t take her for granted. I’m gladder still, for she shows up rarely – in this blog and even in my mind. But her presence is felt, the essence of her sublime demeanor.