Weather with you.

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Had a particularly weird dream last night. You were in it. We were talking about S, and you said something that struck me at the time as being tragically honest. You said, "You know what? It's like we're living in different weather systems."
And I said, "That sounds like a story." And I wrote down three lines before the alarm woke me up. It was like listening to dying in reverse, a faint tinkling noise that hurried to a cacophony, and the light rushing in.
So anyway, here's the rest of the story.
Habit is folly's messenger boy. I wake up, stammer across the carpet to the window and part the curtains. It's raining. It has been for as long as I can remember, for so long that sunshine is only a myth. Like a golden fleece, or a fountain of youth. No one I know has seen it, no one alive, no one dead for a hundred years. So why do I look? Perhaps it is not so much habit as it is hope. And where hope arrives, madness is sure to follow. A loss of sanity seems the only explanation for my dreams, for the image of you. Could that truly be what it looks like? A light that catches your hair on fire, that makes your pale skin glimmer. I'm never sure if it's this light that warms me, of if it's your presence. You cannot be an invention, a delusion of my own mind. I lack the depths to conjure such a soul, such life and laughter and such fierce, bright love. I've asked a thousand times why you visit me, but the merest glimpse of sadness in your eyes is enough to make the question dissipate in the sunlight.
At least, I think it's sunlight. How would I know? As I make my way down the stairs of the apartment block, all I can see is this liquid tapestry, beating a tattoo against the dark asphalt that is my heart. ~~~~~~~~~
Why do dreams breach the bounds of time? Someone explained it to me once, but it's one of those explanations you forget as soon as you have heard it. We spoke again last night, though speaking is at once a miserable descriptive and a joy that seems not meant for us. Are words spoken in a dream spoken at all? Whatever it is or was, it consumed us and our chimeric days, and made me fear waking more than death. But I do wake, the fabric of the curtains finally acceding to an always victorious sun. There is a quiet rumble from outside as thousands of air conditioners kick into life; the noise seeps through concrete and steel and whispers relief. But nothing will cool me like your touch, the sun could never spread itself inside of me, like you do. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to recall where you kissed me, and how and was it the roughness of your hands or the rain that made my skin prickle and blaze. I see in the mirror, behind me and through the window, already the haze makes the city look nervous. The last vestiges or your visit wash away in the basin with the sleep from my eyes, replaced by questions of breakfast and traffic and paperwork. Habit is survival's forgotten lover.

5 Responses to “Weather with you.”

  1. Anonymous kyknoord 

    "...where hope arrives, madness is sure to follow..." Now there's truth that hits us in the face frequently enough for it to become habit.

  2. Anonymous Fence 

    I had a weird dream too, but you weren't in it. More mad cats and possible rabbits.

  3. Anonymous Carl V. 

    Great story, really enjoyed it. My dreams have not been the stuff of great literature of late.

  4. Anonymous Carl V. 

    Great story Machine, really enjoyed it. Evidently you have cleaner night air as my dreams have been nothing of note lately.

  5. Anonymous Carl V. 

    Thought the first one didn't go through...doh!

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