Last night I had a dream that was too real for me to handle. It took over my entire being, and engulfed me in a longing for that dream to simply be true.
It might be, given that 85% of my dreams turn into Deja Vu.
….unless I talk about them….
Last night, I dreamt Caroline walked up me, and pressed a note into my palm. IT was thick, many sheets folded many many times. It was scented, as her letters always had been. Not purposely, of course, that was just way she smelled.
I knew immediately it was a dream, not because of the emotion I was getting from her (I usually wake myself up from revulsion if I have dreams about her loving me) but because of mental imagery that kept flashing up.
A sequence kept playing over and over. We planted a small tree together, by a small brook. She rips it up, and walks off. I sob over the ruined tree for a while, and then lift it up and walk slowly away. She eventually returns and looks at the hole in the ground where the tiny tree once stood.
This played over and over; a dream within a dream.
I slid open the letter, and read the first few lines. It was heartfelt, not simple, not flippant. It was the Caroline I knew.
She looked deeply at me, and apologized. It was so strong, I almost forgave her immediatly. I couldn’t contain the emotion, turned away, and told her I would read it. She departed, leaving me clutching the letter.
Then I woke up.
I sat in the dim morning light, looking at my hands where moments before I had the letter that would have given the answers to all my turmloil. It was gone. I could still feel the paper on my fingers.
I could have at that point fallen back to sleep and began to read the letter. But I held back. I don’t want to live in a fantasy. All I wanted was real love.
The dream hit me so hard, I checked out some old poetry I had written for her.