Forever January

Where do dreams go when they die? What sort of heaven do they dissipate into once we’ve thrown them to the wind? Perhaps stars are made of old dreams from across the galaxies. They all merge together to form something beautiful again, something with meaning.

If there’s a heaven for dreams, it’s where I’d want to rest my head and sleep for aeons. Sleep and forget, sleep and dream anew.

I need love and dreams. I need them like flowers need the sun.

But I’m shrinking in the dark.

Sometimes I feel as though my inner fire is dying. It’s merging with the dark, letting the shadows deepen into dark pools. I question life and the meaning of living, of purposes and fate. Most days it feels as though there is nothing to live for anymore — I’m going through the motions, but I don’t mean them, derive no enjoyment from this existence.

It’s been said that misery loves company — but does it, really? I’m absolutely miserable and I just want to be left alone. I’m tired of trying to form relationships with people that don’t turn into anything but shadowy semblances of what a real relationship would be. Everything feels hollow and grey.

To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

- William Shakespeare, Hamlet 

It’s hard to imagine that the world would be different if I were to cease existing, that something would be changed. Perhaps there’d be temporary mourning, but grief fades over time until it’s forgotten completely.

We all die eventually — it’s merely just a question of when and how.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

The fog settled over the green, casting the world into a dream-like state where one isn’t sure where they’re going but they know they’re moving. Sometimes the greatest journey is between two people …

And while sleep was settled over the room, I dreamt you leaned over and kissed me and caressed my side before moulding your body into mine. And we slept there together, entwined amongst the mossy green, moon and stars. That ocean of distance converged and folded in on herself — here we are, pressed and together. Together.

But when I wake and the sun shines in my eyes, the mossy bed of love under our moon and stars is gone. It’s just these wrinkled sheets and a lonely sound echoing off the walls.

It’s just the distance you don’t give me the means to cross.

Love — can you love me, babe?
Love — is this loving, babe?
Is time turning around?

- Interpol, “Narc”

I want you. How else could I ever put it? More eloquent words don’t seem fitting when the bare, simple fact is that I want you. I find myself dispassionately unsatisfied with other men merely because they aren’t you. I try and pretend there’s not much there, I don’t need you — but the fact is I need you like oxygen to my lungs.

I don’t know how to tell you. I find I’ll probably just keep on playing this façade of mine that you’re merely some guy I know that I find charming and handsome. Perhaps it’s better this way.

The truth is a scary thing and humans have a fear of facts.

I wonder how it will go tomorrow when I look across the way and see your face again. How will the greeting go, what will we say?

I’ll get into the car, I’m sure, and look across at you through my eyelashes and realise — quietly — that nothing has changed at all.

You’re still you, I’m still me and we’ll always be worlds apart.

With only two days to go, I find myself trying to savour these moments and hours in this elsewhere. It’s a shame such things can’t last forever, that everything has to be fleeting. I don’t want to return to my sunny place of residence, where the flowers are in bloom and things are springing to life but all the while my heart feels like its in a state of decay.

I want to sit here and preserve it in the white snow, let it sit and rest and wait for its own spring to come and wake it up into a summer of love.

But alas. Such things aren’t meant to be.

I am reminded of endless seas of white, grey skies, cold winds. It’s all the things I knew in Finland with a French flair.

It’s lovely, and I think this will surely be a vacation to enjoy.

The Finn has put our house up for sale. I found the listing for it on-line. Part of me feels sad. Granted, I left that house over two years ago and haven’t stepped foot in it since … but there is a fraction of me that feels sad that in a few months, it will forever be a part of my past and I’ll never be able to go back.

I must let go of the past. I loved my home dearly, poured my heart and soul into making it my own little nest. Since leaving it, I have never put my mark on any place I’ve inhabited (and there have been a few) for fear that I’ll just have to let go of this nest like I had to let go of the first one. I am like a cat — I become attached to my house, making it an extension of my soul.

I said a long time ago I ended that chapter in my life, and now this is truly becoming so. Those little strings, little notions of one day returning — they’re slipping into the dark abyss, to float among the stardust of yesterday. I must keep moving forward and not look back.

I must let go.