anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,

Haze, a Dream

He comes to me in my sleep, flesh and blood that I can touch, his voice pure, his eyes looking directly into mine. We are somewhere in the United Kingdom; Cambridge, probably. My fingers are on his forearm, closing around it with some pressure, as if holding on to something slippery, such as a fish out of water.

I try to hide him as if he were my secret and all the while hiding from him the other secret from whom I am hiding him. We succeed as I pull him past some almost-certain uncomfortable and potentially hurtful confrontation, and we are in the clear. But he has his mind on work. He is here, with me, but he is elsewhere at the same time.

He is going to London in the evening. I suggest dinner in London. He says, Ah, so the choice is between work and you. He chooses me, but it is not without hesitation.

I am struck by a sense of desperate urgency to keep him in my sight, lock him down, extract some certainty from him. I am driven by a fear of losing him. He is jovial and here, but also distant and elsewhere. He is not really here; he is not fully present. He is with me, but only to a certain extent. And so I chase after him, an apparition-like figure whose form seems to seep through the cracks of my fingers like viscose liquid. He disappears into a room, and I fear that he would change his mind about dinner.

My happiness is muted by this state of anxiety that I am in. I fear his elusiveness, his indecision, his lack of attention. He is flesh and blood and I can touch him and feel him, but it is with a subconsciously held breath that I do so. Without quite realising it, I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. I am expecting to be disappointed. I am looking to the moment when he disappears once more, leaving in his wake a girl with a tear-streaked face, cupping, quite pathetically, her heart in her palms like a small wounded animal.


I eventually woke up and I cried, remembering the dream, the feelings that it caused to wash over me, and that the only time I'd seen him in person since September was in my dream.

In an eerily uncanny move, shortly afer I gave up on going back to sleep and got up for breakfast, I checked my new phone and saw that he - G, of course - had texted me twenty minutes ago.

If I were the superstitious sort, I would perhaps think that it was a sign, or that he wasn't entirely wrong when he used to joke that he and I were in sync with each other. But I am not superstitious, and I don't believe in signs, and I don't think I believe in such instances of a seeming other-wordly connection between two people.

And yet, the coincidence was weird, and so was his timing.

More importantly, I could not bring myself to reply to a simple 'How's home?' message in a timely fashion. The combination of the dream and the profound sadness that I felt upon waking made it more complicated than it was, or should be. And so it was, too, when he reconnected his phone to the Wifi in a cafe somewhere in Bonn, Germany, a few hours after I replied, the brief text conversation that we had filled me with an emotion that I cannot describe. It is not strong enough to qualify as dread; it is too strong to be called melancholy. It is negative, though; it brought back the deadweight in my heart that I thought I was mostly rid of, and I haven't stopped debating with myself what to do about this situation since.

I cannot at present forget how I felt about him and how he made me feel and how amazing it was when we were together. At the same time, I know what I have to do; but a part of me - the part that is convinced that he's the best match for me that I've ever found - cannot bear to let go. This part of me is afraid that I will never find someone like him again - someone who shares my values, someone who understands me intellectually, someone with incredible depth of thinking, etc.

But maybe anything is better than this, isn't it? 'This' being the way he shuts down when we are apart, or when he is busy, or when he doesn't know what to do in a situation involving me. 'This' being, in other words, the way he gives me nothing but silence for weeks on end, even when I am waiting for a reply. 'This' being, finally, his infuriating indecision, his running away from facing this thing between us, his reluctance to make a choice, his unwillingness and/or inability to commit.

Is he stringing me along? Am I on his backburner? Fuck you on both counts if that is the case because I am obviously better than that; but more to the point, I simply don't know. He doesn't want to confront it. He'd rather float along with this current nothing-arrangement, assured of the knowledge of my feelings for him; and perhaps the emotional comfort that he feels from my 'presence' in his life (more like non-presence) is derived from the knowledge of my feelings.

He is assertive in all other aspects of his life except for when it comes to me. He faces his fears straight on but he doesn't want to face his fear of committing to something uncertain and long-distance. He likes challenges, but not this one. It is too bad. Before the Germany debacle, before our last Skype conversation, perhaps even before Dominic kissed me, I would have dropped every man on this planet for him.

Now, however, I am thinking of when and how to tell him that I want to move on. Perhaps when the part of me that holds out hope that he'd turn around and give me what I want finally dies a bloody, violent death; but I don't know when that will be. And I can't deny that that part of me - more than that part of me - wants to see him, still. The truth is, I miss him. Or rather: I miss what we had. I don't think any of it remains. I could never trust him to deliver on anything, or to apply the theory that he has of us to what we really are. I am also tired of him popping up in my life once every two weeks at best with an oh-so-casual message, not knowing of or wilfully blind to the chaos that it orchestrates within me; and then when he goes off and the texting stops, wondering the next day, and the next, and the next, when he'd resurface, and feeling sad when he doesn't, until two weeks later when he pops up again and I go through the same cycle. Rinse, lather, repeat.

I am all washed out. I am left with an austere dullness left behind by once-bright colours now hopelessly and relentlessly faded. I have lost the purity of my feelings for him - and along with it, the blind, deceitful hope that I clung on to, in which destruction he played a significant part. I need to stop feeling - anything at all - about this, regarding this, because of this, once and for all.


I am so tired. I have happier things to write about but I can't stay awake any longer.
Tags: dreams, g, love, personal

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