Dreaming of the past.

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Because I do dream, fairly regularly, of past people and past voices…

I dreamed of you last night. Do you ever dream of me? In those small, dark hours between the opening of eyes, when my thoughts are hardly my own. I wonder if you ever see me in those somnolent hours. I only think of you when waking now if you’ve entered my dreams. You’re different, when I sleep. I dream of your smile, your intensity; an intensity born of youth, of an almost painful inexperience. You have none of the cares you had back then, in the real world.

Do you ever dream of me? I wonder if I inhabit your mind’s space the way you sometimes inhabit mine. Do we meet, somewhere, on a plane far removed from our waking lives? Do you wake, mildly curious, about the reciprocation of an unconscious thought? I’m different, when we meet in my sleep. I shed responsibility and weight, both physical and emotional. I consider you. You look the same.

Those dreams are rarely heated. We talk. We make amends, we go our separate ways. There may be wooing, but it is mindful of reality. Even in dreams I acknowledge a kind of truth. It is a form of redress.

I dreamed of you last night.

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