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I couldn’t think anymore. The truth came to light and I was wrenched from my loving contentment and champagne bliss with my actor husband by the shrill cry of my alarm clock, informing me that if I didn’t get up now, that I could very easily be late for school.
But I wanted to be back in Paris, surrounded by strong arms, held and loved. I wanted to hear his words whispering against my skin, telling me how wonderful I am, how beautiful I am, and whatever else that musky voice wanted to tell me. Why is it that I only feel emotionally whole in my dreams? And it’s only in some dreams and not in others. It’s only in my dreams where I come to some understanding about my life and about myself.
I don’t even always remember my ‘Plateau of Enlightenment’ that often takes me some time to reach over the course of my dream. In real time, that’s only about five minutes because dreams never ever last as long as we think that they do, or want them to, say, the length of forever. I’m a student engulfed in the mundane and the predictable, who, had she been in Paris over a real-life play of my dream, would have been a member of the horde of fangirls, another girl with a dream of life being something more than she has, another girl who just wants to be happy and deeply loved...and who wants to love deeply back.
But I cannot dwell on the course of dreams or what I most deeply desire. Because in the course of my life, if I’m not centered on what is really happening around me, I will get caught within the swell of my dreams and my desires, and will not be able to get out until my energy is drained and the real life I had will retreat into the recesses of my mind, along with the actual memories of my fantasies.
