Went out to dinner tonight with my husband and brother-in-law and we got to talking about the quality of our dreams, that is, what they are like, not how good they are. This little bit of writing of mine came to mind as it captured the sense of some dreams of mine, and my reaction to them upon waking. I’m not sure when I wrote this, probably early college, age 17 or 18. I can’t even recall now what I was thinking about, though I would guess it’s to do with a dead end in love. The sense of dreams, smells, and a sense of belonging (or not) still speak to me.
i came to find my life was not the one i anticipated looked for a bed that was not mine yielded to directions blindly having lost my own saw faces i trusted wary of me standing in a room of cleansing my mind dark and unclean walking up a steep slope i couldn't catch my breath because of the sweat of my brother in vain i chased after the ones who were gone and read their work, copied their art tasting the fear-taste of my mouth my feet grow into the ground the dark fire of the walls drains away the fear-taste becomes a sleep-taste i hesitate to open my eyes i smell that i am not in my bed i do not stir, though i am alone something sits true with my soul here this completion is not from the day, nor has it roots in dream i seek the third side of a two-sided coin that this life so little belonged to me as that of my nights that i could cast it aside by watching the dawn beyond the window