Gleaming silver blinking in the sunlight. Reflecting trees, grass, the lake in the corner. A red and white checked picnic blanket. Picnics. Yum. Reflecting a couple siting, eating off of paper circles with silver sticks. Eating mashed taters, leaves, coolcumbers. Man in shirt and pants. Lady in yellow dress. Pretty yellow, sun yellow. Spots of red. Blood red. Man touched lady. Lady smiles. Man want lady.
I want lady.
Gleaming silver dirty now. Screams louder than planes overhead. Gleaming silver not gleaming no more. Lots of blood everywhere. Blood.
I don’t remember much from the dream I had last night. There were the usual elements of fantasy: settings that forever changed, flowing into one another like water in a stream; faceless people who you believed you’ve known forever but are really figments of whatever dream world you’ve been caught within; the inexplicable villain that you felt real hatred towards.
But there was also something unique to the dream. The strange man that continued to be a part of it was somehow familiar to me. I remember only my feelings for him; the strength and severity behind the loss of what I knew should be, and once was, mine. That feeling has haunted me throughout the day.
But what I’ve chosen to cling to is the idea that someday we would meet again, that this man that has haunted my dreams for the past seven years will find me at some point, that we will again be reunited and continue our love for each other as if the years apart had never existed.
And that, to me, is perfection. That is the only meaning of life. That feeling and realization is the only thing every person in this world is striving towards.