Last night’s dream was a wakeup call (irony of ironies). It was a stupid wakeup call (as dreams tend to be) but nonetheless, it was one. Stop screwing around. Stop living in the past. Stop acting like you’re 18 when you’re not. Stop fantasizing about something that you wish would happen, even though that’s not something you should wish for. Stop thinking about him. Stop pretending he’s thinking about you. Stop wishing you could have it all back, looking fondly and not-so-fondly back on the past six years negatively, yearningly, cloyingly with this whimsical, wide-eyed wistfulness about something that is dead and gone and deceased and over and out. Over. And out.
Dreams have a way of snapping us back into reality through presenting a hyper-reality. A message-deliverer, a symbol, a sign that tells us that we’re doing it wrong. Or at least, our subconscious feels that we’re doing it wrong and is using shadowy figures who sort of look and sort of sound like people in real life to tell us this. It’s fascinating, but delivers this emptiness when you awake that only dreams can give you. Why, oh why wasn’t that real? Why couldn’t I just never wake up? Why, when he said, “I missed you”, was he really just vapour seeping into the crevasses of my brain? But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we have dreams to keep hope alive, and remind us that we hang onto memories, and they dangle and spiral feather-light from our ceilings like delicate mobiles and we reach at them with our children’s hands and fingers. And though we can never reach them, they allow us to have a moment of innocence even though our innocence in our waking lives is lost forever.