don’t dream alone;
dieerstetraumer
He recognizes the difference between dreams and reality. He knows he’s in bed, his pug by his feet, snoring and making small little snorting noises as he’s prone to doing. He knows the pillow’s beneath his hair, that the perfume of the fabric softener he uses on his sheets is what smells sweet.
He understands that in dreams, he has different control than when he’s awake, but it’s wonderful to let go, to roll over and know that this is his weekend and he can sleep until four o’ clock p.m if he really wants to, for he has no classes early, he has no plans, he just wants to sleep.
He’s smiling and the makings of a dream are upon him. He pictures his forest with its tall trees, luminous and breathtaking, the sun spattering between the leaves if only to dapple on the grasses, the streams, and the sound of water soothes him.
This is what he likes to dream and he finds himself running for the water, for the water’s cool and refreshing and he loves to drink it, he remembers this personal pond.
He knows suddenly that he’s not alone and he wonders who he’ll dream of this time, who he’ll see at the stream. His grandfather and their shared dog, Sam, with his pink rolling tongue and his long tail that’s more of a fan than a spare limb perhaps, or maybe his childhood sweetheart.
Or…maybe, her.
But she has no place in this world, not anymore.
He knows he’s dreaming but he speaks anyways and he wonders, however faintly, if he’s talking in his sleep again.
“Hello?” he calls out, his voice soft over the gurgle of the stream.
