I am an eternal romantic in the broadest sense of the term. Some people, places, events, situations, mannerisms and even some self-reflection exercises create an everlasting spool of thoughts out of which I weave dreams. Motivational salience makes me revisit one such beautiful Dream. A forest of dreams I fashioned, where one day, rather one frosty evening, just into the twilight she walks in...
...this girl, she walks all uneasy. Uneasy and unsure. I hardly notice her presence. But in her absence, anticipation of her makes me feel many things. Nervousness, plunges and contractions create waves of expectation in stomach.
But nothing now when she's here. Her presence doesn't make me smile. I hope it never does as it denies her omnipotence here. She has a warmth about her that does not exude any aura. It's just there. reassuring as ever. There is nothing in the world, fictional or real, that could be more important than just having her by my side.
If I were ever to tell her how I feel, I would write her a letter. It would start with... 'I hope to live forever just to occupy a world containing your presence.'
But in this moment I am cool and collected. My happiness on meeting her under uneventful circumstances should not be betrayed. Not for fear of rejection because I never sought an approval. But for fear of removal from this surreal scheme of things, back to reality. I freeze my heart as it mustn't feel the eventuality, whenever it might happen. Should it happen.
How pessimistic one can be when it comes to such things!
We bond, she knows. But she is steadfast in her denial. She has her own compulsions, a world of realities to face. For her it's like we never met.
And there is me. Never before have I been at so much ease with somebody. Her presence near me is enough for me to while away hours together, even without her noticing me. We don't need to talk. Our eyes don't need to meet. They can rest steady for their corners recognize the image which they don't need to register obviously. The sense of her presence is enough for me to forget a world exists outside our rendezvous.
Then there is the talk. Her voice is alarmingly soft, delicate with just a hint saying 'listen'. So I do.
The forest of dreams has surrounded us with its magic now.
The forest of dreams has surrounded us with its magic now.
She's witty but she's not funny although she tries, which ultimately makes the process amusing. When she is in middle of a monologue I could hear her for eternity. I like her more when she is condescending to me. Dare I say, one of her many charms.
Sometimes I could have lived in her form and feel no different, for she echoes my thoughts. She understands and makes sense of the world as I do. Our worlds don't collide. They seamlessly roll into one another. Like lovers who might finally roll into each others arms on a warm and cozy bed on a cold and frosty evening. We are no lovers. Certainly not how I would term this relationship.
Her being there, is all that I need to glide through the day.
She should know this. Perhaps she should not. I fear more than I love. Or my love must always fear to keep itself alive. The dream must not be broken. But it has to, sometime. The dawn will eventually breach the security of my dream in a flood and sweep us out of my wonderland.
But until that happens, is this night of passion. A night of love, not love-making. A night of companionship, not courtship. A night of understanding, not passion. A night of heightened imagination not enchantment.
She should know this. Perhaps she should not. I fear more than I love. Or my love must always fear to keep itself alive. The dream must not be broken. But it has to, sometime. The dawn will eventually breach the security of my dream in a flood and sweep us out of my wonderland.
But until that happens, is this night of passion. A night of love, not love-making. A night of companionship, not courtship. A night of understanding, not passion. A night of heightened imagination not enchantment.
The dream must sustain.
Because once broken, she will leave. Vanish. She will deny the connection. She is a isolationist in reality. Her immunity to register our harmony will be cruel. It breaks my confidence of maybe another night's visit to the forest of gold.
Because once broken, she will leave. Vanish. She will deny the connection. She is a isolationist in reality. Her immunity to register our harmony will be cruel. It breaks my confidence of maybe another night's visit to the forest of gold.
But as long as I tread this forest of dreams with her, I must savour the walk. We must take in the sights created by my subconscious - the golden woods, camp under the stars in a clearing amidst pitch darkness and a gentle murmur of wind. Everything else can wait, while stimulating thoughts are exchanged. Not about anyone or anybody, just the abstractions which guide our visit.
Midnight walk alongside River Mundane, flowing through the forest will nullify any misgivings about the dream vanishing in memory. Its burble will hold the dream together as it lasts through this uncertain night.
Do not interrupt this fantasy by shaking me into the obvious. By giving definitions and interpretations of whatever this is. For completely and wittingly she shares this dream with me. She knows I hold her hand in this dense forest. And she held mine with the deepest sense of security.
Do not interrupt this fantasy by shaking me into the obvious. By giving definitions and interpretations of whatever this is. For completely and wittingly she shares this dream with me. She knows I hold her hand in this dense forest. And she held mine with the deepest sense of security.
Her fears too can wait until morning. For now, let her be in the comfort of my forest of dreams. An abode of beauty she most consciously shares in the subconscious of my creation.
Love is a guilty pleasure for her, to experience and ridicule, as if it were an ignominy. Nevertheless, for now she is there alongside me, living it, experiencing it. Walking the same walk as mine. Hearing the same sounds of nature, soaking in the same wilderness. As mine.
This is a dream, my dream, which she will deny having ever visited, calling it a dream of herself.
So she must never be awakened. Neither should I be. As long as it lasts, we would ride on the magic carpet of my dream like Aladdin and Princess Jasmine.
Finally, when she opens her eyes to the first rays, she should want to hold on to her dream. My dream. Our dream. Our forest of dreams.
Come morning, I will write to her. In a letter, I will tell her all about it.
Love is a guilty pleasure for her, to experience and ridicule, as if it were an ignominy. Nevertheless, for now she is there alongside me, living it, experiencing it. Walking the same walk as mine. Hearing the same sounds of nature, soaking in the same wilderness. As mine.
This is a dream, my dream, which she will deny having ever visited, calling it a dream of herself.
So she must never be awakened. Neither should I be. As long as it lasts, we would ride on the magic carpet of my dream like Aladdin and Princess Jasmine.
Finally, when she opens her eyes to the first rays, she should want to hold on to her dream. My dream. Our dream. Our forest of dreams.
Come morning, I will write to her. In a letter, I will tell her all about it.
But the letter will never be posted.
