I had a very bad dream last night. Nothing in it appeared to be bad. If i described it to anybody, they wouldn't really get why it was bad. But it was very bad.
And we all know deep down
that the worst things
are perfect.
I don't know how many people feel a soft, tender spot planted on the inner linings of their heart, where a mechanism resides such that, with the proper activation, an irradiated gem reawakens with a gasp.
Currently, it really only happens when I dream. I can't do it when I'm awake. I've tried and it's not really possible. It's like trying to go back in time to the exact moment something happened and relive it.
But, when I dream, my body kicks itself into place and creates a visionary depiction of everything we waking beings are too dense to understand.
People often talk about sexual power and how terrible it is.
People also talk about emotional abuse and how terrible it is.
But there's something in between those two, not quite positioned next to them, but somehow within them. Not quite contained by those concepts so much as colored by them. And really characteristic of neither; distracted from them yet bound by their peripheral attention.
Something warm and romantic and otherworldly in the bed of youth, and forever in bloom.
I like to think sometimes
that my memories are here again, that they're replaying themselves infinitely
somewhere in the sunny faraway alps: Unobservable, uncollapsed,
bright, beautiful, and yearning.
No matter how dire.
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