She was hurting and I could tell, but I didn't ask. It's not that I didn't care, but that I never ask 'is something wrong?' I never insist that people tell me their secrets. Anyway, I could tell. Some things you don't need to ask about. So instead, I smiled, I tried to make her laugh. But I couldn't ask, I couldn't find out. Maybe she knew or guessed I wanted her to feel better. I'll never know.
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True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air.
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Sometimes you wake up every morning for a month with your heart pounding and this sense of dread, this sense that there's something wrong with your brain, but by the time you calm yourself down and get out of bed you can't quite remember what the dream was about. And that starts to bother you, too, because you have this conviction that it's been the same dream every time.
So you start writing it down, first thing, no matter how terrified or disoriented you are, and you find out you're wrong. It's been a different dream each time. So you delve deeper, because maybe there's a common thread. It doesn't matter, you tell yourself, that dreamers often lie, so long as there's still some truth to be found.
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Dreamers Often Lie by R.S. Mason is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 United States License.
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1 comment:
That's what I thought... think.
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