I was fresh from a dream.
There she was... this dark haired, quiet, almost too polite and proper, enigmatic girl. Woman, I guess. It always feels odd to say woman. It's such an adult word. Girl, well, that word just makes me sound like a dirty old man. There she was; smiling at me, smiling at everyone, even the trees. Her smile at me was no different than her smile at them. So, completely disarmed with ego aside, I didn't overanalyze anything.
I think we're in vegas. There's just a few of us. It's me with girls. Women, I guess. Just friends. All familiar faces from yesterday. There's no sexual tension nor any hopes of fulfilling the vegas slogan of what happens here, stays here. I think we're all song writers and poker players.
I can't stop thinking of our host: this mysterious dark haired woman.
The dream moves at a fast pace. We have breakfast in an old diner each morning. We carry around notebooks. That dark haired girl, woman, I guess, is always with us. I can't stop obsessing over the little things. Like her angelic skin. Her eyes. Her smile for everyone. And my constant need to always know what everyone is thinking but especially her... About me.
Each night is spent in her home.
The dream slows down. The wheels in my subconscious mind come to a halt. I'm forced to record every detail, from head to toe, of her. And she looks familiar. I've drempt of her before. Many times. I've loved her in every dream, each hypothetical scenario; good and bad. It's always her.
At some point or a different dream, she became my religion. It's an unfair cross for any woman to bear. Each dream, I walk away. And I tell myself I'm just afraid I'll nail her back up again. A tiara made of thorns. The imagery overwhelms me before I wake up. Each time.
But this dream was unlike the others. I just listened and observed. No agenda. No demands. No lavish or calculated words.
We're on our way back home. I ask a familar face if that mysterious dark haired girl, woman, I guess, said anything about me. The familiar face replies, "she just wanted you to tuck her in each night. Talk to her. And smile back."
"She forgives you.", the familiar face added.
Then I woke up.
And I lay still for a few minutes; soaking in this fresh dream before all the details disappear as all dreams do by mid-morning. I futilely attempt a few times to fall back asleep into that same dream. I need more details. Meaning. An explanation.
And I just stare at my ceiling, eyes wide open, and finish the dream myself.
And this self-defined "profound" epiphany overwhelms me... I tell myself that we do our best dreaming when our eyes are wide open. Absent of truth, with an ending we choose, with the information controlled by the dreamer, guilt removed, and a false sense of closure. And this so-called self-described moment of abstract thinking isn't shrewd or deep or profound. And I begin to think that our dreams are more closer to reality than we care to admit. That our minds contain the truths we fail to face when awake.
And as each theory floats around my head, before I get out of bed, I think of that dark haired girl. Woman, I guess.
Forgiveness is always nice. Even if its just in a dream.
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