I had a dream the other night.
My eyes open. I'm awake, and I feel a gentle hand of air stroke across my jaw line and cheek. I'm in my room, aligned and organized, if that's the word, just as it always has been. All the objects and walls hues of grey's and blue's, shown dimly in the complementary blue light that is tip toeing through the window blinds. I don't quite feel warm under my contrasting-ly crimson blanket, or cold, but I do know that it is chilly in the room. I'm lying on my side, looking out and about the room. My roommate is gone, his blankets swirled and contorted grasping each other in the absence of his body. Then, as if she'd been there all along, I turn my head to the edge of my bed where my legs stretched out, and see a girl. She is ghostly white, but very much a solid creature, lightly clothed in vines strong and leaves green. Breathing in and out, head at a slight caring and inquisitive tilt. Her hair is long, thick and dark. Some strands windswept and hanging down all the way to my bed which she is sitting on the edge of as she rests a hand on my hip, while the bulk of it covers her hardly covered body. And her eyes, large and pine green, are looking down at me. A soft, loving curl to her lips and shade to her stare. Following her hair up, past her relatively athletic frame and soft features, I meet that gaze and feel a sudden calm come over me. Feeling an internal warmth, the kind that only comes from family cozy family gatherings, hangouts with missed friends, or alone time with significant others. I decide to try and say something, and find that I have no strength to open my mouth. Nothing but the whistle of morning breezes broke the silence. So I try instead to reach out to her, and as soon as I lift my arm to try and maybe grasp her hand, it all disappears in a flash of black.
I blink, and all of a sudden I'm truly awake this time in the less mystical world, beyond disappointed. Lying there empty, but not sure of what I want to be filled.
I don't know who that girl/woman was supposed to be, but she looked nothing like any other girl I'd ever met or previously seen. With the leaves and pale skin, she resembled the woman who met the Father in his dreams in The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. The woman who embodied, as I understood, the sweetness of death and release from the stresses of the world he and his son lived in. But for me, I don't think her appearance holds quite the same meaning. And for some odd reason, whenever I think of her, I find that the feeling that forms in my chest beyond that of curiosity, is that of missing her.
My eyes open. I'm awake, and I feel a gentle hand of air stroke across my jaw line and cheek. I'm in my room, aligned and organized, if that's the word, just as it always has been. All the objects and walls hues of grey's and blue's, shown dimly in the complementary blue light that is tip toeing through the window blinds. I don't quite feel warm under my contrasting-ly crimson blanket, or cold, but I do know that it is chilly in the room. I'm lying on my side, looking out and about the room. My roommate is gone, his blankets swirled and contorted grasping each other in the absence of his body. Then, as if she'd been there all along, I turn my head to the edge of my bed where my legs stretched out, and see a girl. She is ghostly white, but very much a solid creature, lightly clothed in vines strong and leaves green. Breathing in and out, head at a slight caring and inquisitive tilt. Her hair is long, thick and dark. Some strands windswept and hanging down all the way to my bed which she is sitting on the edge of as she rests a hand on my hip, while the bulk of it covers her hardly covered body. And her eyes, large and pine green, are looking down at me. A soft, loving curl to her lips and shade to her stare. Following her hair up, past her relatively athletic frame and soft features, I meet that gaze and feel a sudden calm come over me. Feeling an internal warmth, the kind that only comes from family cozy family gatherings, hangouts with missed friends, or alone time with significant others. I decide to try and say something, and find that I have no strength to open my mouth. Nothing but the whistle of morning breezes broke the silence. So I try instead to reach out to her, and as soon as I lift my arm to try and maybe grasp her hand, it all disappears in a flash of black.
I blink, and all of a sudden I'm truly awake this time in the less mystical world, beyond disappointed. Lying there empty, but not sure of what I want to be filled.
I don't know who that girl/woman was supposed to be, but she looked nothing like any other girl I'd ever met or previously seen. With the leaves and pale skin, she resembled the woman who met the Father in his dreams in The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. The woman who embodied, as I understood, the sweetness of death and release from the stresses of the world he and his son lived in. But for me, I don't think her appearance holds quite the same meaning. And for some odd reason, whenever I think of her, I find that the feeling that forms in my chest beyond that of curiosity, is that of missing her.
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