My Dream (Because I Can Not Dream of You)
posted October 18, 2009 - 9:57pmIf I were a novelist, I’d write about you. You would be best-selling—talked about—praised—loved—the way I talked about, praised, and loved you. Copies would sell-out, shelves would be re-stocked, and they would be snatched up again and again and again. And I would understand, because it is, after all, about you.
If I were a novelist, you would come back to me. I could carry you in my bag, on a rainy day, and refer to you always. I would document all our days—our conversations—
“Even the bad ones?” You want to know.
Especially them, I say. Of course them. That’s real. That’s us.
“Even the time I told you I had to leave you?”
Yes.
You think for a moment. “You were so sad.”
I know.
“That’s okay?”
It’s not okay, but I must write it. I must write you exactly as you happened to me, and share with the world our whole story. Even the part where you are just gone. No goodbye. And I am so—so mad. You said it wouldn’t happen like that—so quickly—you said—
No. You lied.
“I didn’t lie. I couldn’t have known—”
You lied to me you told me—
You are just a whisper to me. “Let go,” you say.
But it’s not easy for me. You could have done this—strong—not like me—I can’t let go. There was no closure for me. My fingers pound the keyboard; I think it is pointless, think you are horrible and that you do not deserve to be made into a best-selling masterpiece—
“But you will change your mind,” you interrupt.
It annoys me that you are always there—always interrupting. It annoys me that you know that.
“Well, of course I know that. After all, I am gone, so I can’t really be talking to you.”
I sigh. I know. I know.
“And I make you sad.”
You make me mad, I say.
“Then why are you crying?”
I will write you with a heavy heart. Because I so vividly remember the day I found out you were gone, and how relentlessly the sun insisted on shining. And how—the fight—I will have to write the fight—just a few days before you—
“Oh, don’t put that in.”
Stop bossing me around.
You wave a hand to silence me. You look as perfect as you always did. “That fight was awful. You said—”
Stop it.
“If you’re putting it in the novel anyway, I might as well bring it up.”
Yes, but—
“You said you didn’t love me.”
I said I didn’t love you—I will have to put it in. My heart will ache to write it. It wasn’t true. Did you know it wasn’t true?
“Yes. No.”
I would have told you—but I woke up and the phone rang and you were gone—I don’t even remember who called—
“It was my sister.”
It was your sister. And you were gone. You were alone.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
I know. I don’t. I don’t know. But don’t you see? If I put you in ink, you’d exist forever. You wouldn’t be gone—you—!
“Of course I would be gone.”
Yes. No. Yes, of course. But then, everyone—everyone would know who you were—are—were—
“People knew me.”
Not enough. You were so—perfect. You were so—
“I was never perfect,” you laugh, your nose crinkles… I am sure that it does, but the image is a little blurry. You are fading. I must write faster.
I will write you and you will not leave me like you did. And—and isn’t that wonderful, I think, isn’t that glorious amazing impossible almost—but—but not impossible. It could happen. It’s merely a dream but—
“It can happen,” you assure me. “You can be a writer.” You pause. Then gently, “But I can never come back. You need me to be gone.”
I sigh. I want to touch you. You are so far away, now.
I know you can’t come back. But if I were a novelist, you would never be far. You would never leave me to go where I can’t find you. And we could talk again, like now. Don’t you see how we are talking?
“Yes,” you smile that secret smile. “But maybe we shouldn’t anymore.”
But I could tell you I’m sorry. I could tell you I loved you.
“But I know.”
I don’t think you do.
If I were a novelist, I’d write about you. I’d write about us. And I changed my mind. It wouldn’t have to be best-selling. I would just want to go into a bookshop and be able to find it. I would just—write it—get it down—and then, finally—finally—be done—because you are right, you know—
You don’t ask how—you are slipping from me—I need you to hear this—
“Tell me,” you say, with a great effort.
Because I need the final chapter we weren’t given—I need this—I need this—because I am selfish, and because I cannot dream you are here anymore—because I need to write you, and then—put you on a shelf—
“Forever?”
Not forever. But long enough to move on.
“And?”
And when the pain comes back (and it always comes back)—I will open it—our book—and be taken from this awful place where you are gone, become lost in your words, in your heart, in your soul.
I will take you from the shelf, and dust you off, because you are mine, have always been mine—my words, my heart, my soul.
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Comments
Thank you MizzShady!
I did laugh when you said you thought I was "a bit nuts," lol. Aw, I did not mean to have you in tears, though! But I'm moved that my writing inspired such a response. Thank you for your kind words, I'm extremely tocuhed.
Sorry for the typos i told
Sorry for the typos i told you that you had me crying...
Now you have me a crying mess
This was so deep. At first when I started reading it I thought prehaps you were a bit nuts but I continued to read on and tears flowed from my eyes. I know that story because I have a book I wrote that sit on a shelf. When the day comes where your able to open that book again is the day you realize you don't need that book and you can throw it away. Bitter Ironic but it's not until that day comes when you have finally let go and begin the start of moving on. I think the fear of the lose is what makes it hurt not so much that they are gone. Its the letting go its the facing of acepting the fact that you once had love and it has been taken away. Its not fair cause you weren't done yet. There were still more chappers that needed to be played out. It's not fair but its life and we must move on. Thank you for that it was most beautiful.
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Can't believe I missed reading this!
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~Peace, Mia
thank you
Thank you for the comment, Ark1:) Your confusion make sense because in the story I myself both want keep what was, alive, yet I know that I have to let go. It's painful, yes, but writing always helps - which is why it's my dream:).
My Dream (Because I Can Not Dream of You)
Definitely an unorthodox way of writing you have. I read your tips on writing, so I get it. Still, I think it's very well written. I was a trilfe confused though - I got the impression of keeping a memory of what was, alive... I also got the impression of capturing an idea before it disappeared. If it's the former, I can very nearly feel the pain of it. For the latter, losing a good idea stings. Either way, very much enjoyed reading it. It had me thinking about...other times. Stay up, ms.
Ark1
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