Dream Within a Dream
I dreamed that there was a book that contained everything we had ever said to each other. It was bound with leather and sat on an old tree stump, beside a small, clear pool of water, at the far end of the backyard of an old victorian house. A broken path of stepping stones led to it, and all around were dense, untamed woods, as if nature had erected a wall to shelter this clearing from everyone's view but ours.
We would visit the book, and each time we did a new page that was previously blank would be filled with our conversations from the days before. If we turned to the latest page, we could even see the words being formed as we spoke them to each other. Eventually, we found that even speaking was not necessary for the book to respond, we had but to think of the message that we wanted the other to hear and our thoughts would materialize on the page before us.
When you decided to move on from that place, and left me and the book behind, its magic continued to work. Although we were far apart, our thoughts of each other were preserved in it, sometimes deliberately, sometimes not. I would often open the book to see if there was something new: a message from you, or a passing thought about me. If I chose to, I would sometimes respond myself.
But there was no point in responding, because you could no longer see the book. My thoughts were hidden from you, and preserving them in those pages was a depressing reminder of the distance between us and the ever-growing disconnection of our hearts and minds. As time passed, your messages became less frequent, more detached, while mine... those futile, unheard messages... became more desperate, more frantic, crying out for a way that you might somehow know my anguish and longing for you.
And so, when the regularity of your thoughts of me slowed to nothing, and all that could be seen on those final pages were the disordered ravings of a troubled man, I left the book behind... for it was of no more use to me. In honesty, the sight of it disgusted me, as everything in it, even those places where we were happy, stood as a mockery of what we had become. Our story was over, and I decided to trouble myself no longer with it. I went on to create new stories, and there were many.
I found the book again, later in life. It sat just as it always had on that tree stump, except now enshrined in a layer of moss, the yard overgrown and overcome by weeds and vines. I picked it up and flipped gently through the now fragile pages. I turned to the end of the book, where I felt so much of my heart and soul had been committed in those painful times, only to find those pages barely intact, and what words remained barely legible. My pain and your indifference, rotting away together into nothing.
I turned to the beginning of the book. The words were all there, all the same, but faded.. as if time had made the paper itself forgetful of our memories. But as I read each page, drawing out each cherished moment from the depths of my recollection, feeling my heart flutter with the nostalgia of those blissful days and nights, the letters became bolder, sharper, and the pages thicker. I became excited, and gave myself over to the magical renewal taking place before me, revelling more and more in every memory long forgotten, suddenly reclaimed, watching every page grow more resplendent and pristine than the last as I relived each passionate moment we shared.
When finally I looked down to see those last, disintegrating pages before me once again, the memories of those painful times came back also. The image of myself lonely and forlorn, pining hopelessly for your lost love. But despite the portrait in my mind's eye, I could not conjure the emotions associated with it. All the bitterness and pain had long since left me, and not a lingering trace of it remained to be recaptured by my heart or by the book. I watched as those pages crumbled away between even the gentle grasp of my fingers.
For the first time, I took that book from its sacred spot and carried it with me. There was finality in what had occurred, and it was no longer necessary for it to remain separate from me. I cleaned the cover until it shone as the first day we found it, and slid it into a shelf amongst many other books, each one special in its own way.
Every once in a while, I would take out that book again and look through it. I would make sure to tend to those parts most neglected, most faded, since the last time, making sure never to let any memory become lost or illegible. But there was a more important reason for me to look at it. Through all these years, your words had always remained beside mine, although mostly faded away nearly to nothingness. But each time, turning through the pages one by one, I would always find new places where your words had been reborn, and stood as boldly as my own.
And seeing this, I could only smile.
We would visit the book, and each time we did a new page that was previously blank would be filled with our conversations from the days before. If we turned to the latest page, we could even see the words being formed as we spoke them to each other. Eventually, we found that even speaking was not necessary for the book to respond, we had but to think of the message that we wanted the other to hear and our thoughts would materialize on the page before us.
When you decided to move on from that place, and left me and the book behind, its magic continued to work. Although we were far apart, our thoughts of each other were preserved in it, sometimes deliberately, sometimes not. I would often open the book to see if there was something new: a message from you, or a passing thought about me. If I chose to, I would sometimes respond myself.
But there was no point in responding, because you could no longer see the book. My thoughts were hidden from you, and preserving them in those pages was a depressing reminder of the distance between us and the ever-growing disconnection of our hearts and minds. As time passed, your messages became less frequent, more detached, while mine... those futile, unheard messages... became more desperate, more frantic, crying out for a way that you might somehow know my anguish and longing for you.
And so, when the regularity of your thoughts of me slowed to nothing, and all that could be seen on those final pages were the disordered ravings of a troubled man, I left the book behind... for it was of no more use to me. In honesty, the sight of it disgusted me, as everything in it, even those places where we were happy, stood as a mockery of what we had become. Our story was over, and I decided to trouble myself no longer with it. I went on to create new stories, and there were many.
I found the book again, later in life. It sat just as it always had on that tree stump, except now enshrined in a layer of moss, the yard overgrown and overcome by weeds and vines. I picked it up and flipped gently through the now fragile pages. I turned to the end of the book, where I felt so much of my heart and soul had been committed in those painful times, only to find those pages barely intact, and what words remained barely legible. My pain and your indifference, rotting away together into nothing.
I turned to the beginning of the book. The words were all there, all the same, but faded.. as if time had made the paper itself forgetful of our memories. But as I read each page, drawing out each cherished moment from the depths of my recollection, feeling my heart flutter with the nostalgia of those blissful days and nights, the letters became bolder, sharper, and the pages thicker. I became excited, and gave myself over to the magical renewal taking place before me, revelling more and more in every memory long forgotten, suddenly reclaimed, watching every page grow more resplendent and pristine than the last as I relived each passionate moment we shared.
When finally I looked down to see those last, disintegrating pages before me once again, the memories of those painful times came back also. The image of myself lonely and forlorn, pining hopelessly for your lost love. But despite the portrait in my mind's eye, I could not conjure the emotions associated with it. All the bitterness and pain had long since left me, and not a lingering trace of it remained to be recaptured by my heart or by the book. I watched as those pages crumbled away between even the gentle grasp of my fingers.
For the first time, I took that book from its sacred spot and carried it with me. There was finality in what had occurred, and it was no longer necessary for it to remain separate from me. I cleaned the cover until it shone as the first day we found it, and slid it into a shelf amongst many other books, each one special in its own way.
Every once in a while, I would take out that book again and look through it. I would make sure to tend to those parts most neglected, most faded, since the last time, making sure never to let any memory become lost or illegible. But there was a more important reason for me to look at it. Through all these years, your words had always remained beside mine, although mostly faded away nearly to nothingness. But each time, turning through the pages one by one, I would always find new places where your words had been reborn, and stood as boldly as my own.
And seeing this, I could only smile.
posted by Uzura at 7:22 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home