It’s funny. It always starts with a dream.
I go through the hours of the day completing my remedial tasks, running errands, making dinner, fighting off existential dread. You know, the usual. The thought never crosses my manic mind unprompted.
Then as the clock strikes some time around 4:13 a.m., I finally settle enough to drift into something resembling the resetting of my circadian rhythm. Depending on the day, there are brief intermediate breaks, and other nights, deep unconsciousness completely uninterrupted by the outside world.
Those are the nights. That’s when the ghosts come out to dance within the boundaries of my cerebral psyche. There is no way to disturb their activity. They are free to roam.
It has been happening for four years now, compounded by each new experience. It’s just something I’ve become numb to, knowing there is nothing anyone can say that will settle their bouncing souls. As each comes to centerstage, our tales flash like scenes from a projector. Hazy, just enough, to obscure full-clarity, yet vivid enough to transport me to the moments I’ve relived now hundreds of times.
For some reason though, as of late, one of the most serene of these scenes has resurfaced. Often. And in somberness.
It was a Thursday night in February, a rendezvous of relative strangers, meeting again under promising pretense. It came in the aftermath of the most intense and clairvoyant meeting of the minds I’ve ever experienced, the type of encounter that pulses electrons throughout your mind and into the deepest part of your being. I had no choice but to be on top of my game, and I was ready for it.
As we enjoyed libations, we broke boundaries. My hands quickly cusped yours. We huddled, arm in arm, and galavanted through the courtyard, chasing sounds in the distance that promised serenity. Upon entering the doorway, what stood before was out of a movie: a four-piece band, led by a man belting each soulful note with purpose, before a small, scattered crowd and an open dance floor.
We stood, embracing your shoulders, watching the few others around us hold one another and sway to the rhythm and the blues. We exchanged no words, only glances, pulling closer with each verse. Slowly, we began to move in motion as well.
I don’t recall what song filled the room in that moment. But as this recreation replays on my aged projector, whatever tune it was has been replaced. Instead, as we whisk away into the night, I now hear one of reflection and melancholy.
Once I was your treasure
And I saw your face in every star
But the promises we make at night
Oh that's all they are
Unless we fill them with faith and love
Empty as the howlin' wind
And honey I just wanna be back in your arms
Back in your arms again
They are arms I felt the embrace of so many times. They are arms that held me, and every bit of me, through my feats and my flaws.
They are arms that are no longer open.
The band tapers. The evening fades. So does the scene.
My eyes slowly open, as they do every morning. I realize my consciousness, and sigh heavily. Where my life was devoid of your existence yesterday, it will be reminded of it all day today.
That’s the pain in the truth.
Acceptance is never enough.