-140 on a July night
There are dreams that will rip you out of things. Rip you up by the roots, badly, scattering you on the ground as it goes. And until you get your thoughts in order, till you find the ground again, you’re just there in pieces.
I used to think that there were things at night that seemed important and lost their power when the day. Now I’m convinced of the opposite: There are things that seem important during the day. Night doesn’t lie.
In a moment of either youth or adolescence, I fell in love. Seriously. What ends sooner: youth or first love? Well, given that time is non-linear, they seem to follow us forever.
Many youths have passed, many relationships have gone, but, linked by a common friendship, we ritually collide every year on one holiday or another. In my dream, this is one of those days. A well-known apartment, with an achingly recognizable interior. Faces, most of which are bound up with a funny story between old and good friends. And of course — she. The girl who’s always late when she knows she’s wanted.
Despite the dream’s freedom, my subconscious chooses the warmth of good feelings. The days are different, but the night gently carries our memories, repeating itself each time. All sensations scattered through time gather in this dream room, replacing the days without. Together, we talk and argue. Laughing, of course. The unity of time, the unity of action. I give up 364 to live in this evening.
The evening may be coming to an end, but I know we will meet again a year from now. Guests gather in the hallway, split up so that, by the law of the genre, we are the only ones left.
Dreams are strange. Inevitably, moments like this will creep up. I stand in the hallway and, suddenly, as it does in dreams, I just know that today will never happen again. This moment, in this very dream, on the doorstep of someone else’s home, this is our goodbye.
I haven’t been outside, but knew for sure — it’s winter outside. Only on a night of unthinkable cold, could such longing exist. It wasn’t me walking away from the memories, they were saying goodbye to me. The past was saying farewell without inviting me along, insisting that I had places to go.
I won’t lie, of course I begged to follow her. To stay with my feelings, with this though aching, yet beating heart. Get stuck in the elevator, trapping myself in the skeleton of the house we’d relived every year.
Past… I crumpled in the hallway, sure it would never squeeze through the door. For all its beauty and languor, nothing in the world could fit so much feeling into a single doorway. She can’t leave like that, all at once… Naive. I wasn’t paying attention. Past was leaving every night, taking belongings. It took away memory piece by piece without disturbing me. Sentimental, it “woke” me up for our last date. Leaving. With ease, without even touching a door, bearing the last and most precious thing. Without writing a new address, but promising to visit.
