Monday, November 29, 2010

Just When I Thought This Was Over

More dreams last night. Amongst the plethora of killing, death, running, searching - there was one moment that I shall not forget - have not forgotten - and now shall write.

I was looking for friends, if memory serves correctly. Walking through some sort of underground courtyard, with marble columns making a sort of '+' outline with their carbon melding. But that's not really important.

I spy her - the girl who took the little heart fragments I had welded together into a tin heart - her walking with three friends, three friends I still occasionally talk to. But I know in my dream-consciousness that she still isn't talking to me, and I hate her for it, for that, for what she did to me. So I walk faster, (this much I remember clearly) and stare straight ahead. I pass them quickly, uneventfully. All seems well. Then...she talks to me.

"When are we going to meet up?" I think she says. It's not important what she says - just that she said anything. I slowly stop; turn around. This sort of slow, deliberate motion is uncommon in my dreams - all too often I'm falling all over the place, trying to get a handle on things.

["There are many things she didn't get about me, so many things she ultimately overlooked, and things that she would never know, and there would always be a distance between us because there were too many shadows everywhere."]

"When you start talking to me like a human being," I tell her. When you admit to letting me tear my heart into strands of confetti, sanguine and bruised. When you admit that under a blood-drenched star's light, I stood alone, waiting for you, my worm-heart fibrillating at the thought that you might read this and hear me, respond to me, acknowledge that I EVEN FUCKING EXIST.

I woke up shortly thereafter - the rest of the dream was violence and more searching and more wandering through my limbic system and cerebellum. Ironically, it was one of my two shrinks calling to say I could have an earlier appointment because of a cancellation.

This was never the end of me. It was the end of me and her; even the end of solely her. But not me. I doubt she reads this; she couldn't be bothered to even respond to my final words to her. She got them, but was too afraid or too cruel to ever let me know what backwards logic was flowing through her mind. I can't blame her - I'd be afraid of me too.

-M

The microexpression that flits across my face while writing this.


And who doesn't love Tim Roth..?