Monday, 23 June 2014

The Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction

The irony of my dream from that night lay in the fact the his wife sat next to us as we lay on that ottoman, on the verge of sleep and dreaming dreams within dreams. While that reads like a tongue-twister, what it really managed to do was twist my mind into a crumpled heap of shame and misery.
I woke up with a sinking feeling the next morning knowing that it was a highly inappropriate thing to have dreamed of.
He always smelled of this manly, sweaty smell that was his own, and I know that might sound unappealing and gross, but it was the exact opposite. It was this rugged, masculine smell that worked better for him than any cologne possibly could have. His smile was the perfect balance of alignment and mischief, and I could swear I saw every pearly white in glorious (and concurrently heart-wrenching) detail. I smelled his raw, earthy skin as if it was right under me.
I haven't seen that face in over nine hundred days. There have been smarter, kinder, friendlier, less hurtful people I have had the good fortune of meeting over this time, but no one manages to creep into my nights the way he does. Some kind of evil voodoo to remind me of what was and what became of it, like a sustained-release tablet to hurt and harm.
The dreams should ideally be reducing in frequency with time judging by how comfortably I have moved to happier, greener, freer pastures, and on the basis of the last horrid memories of him in my brain-physical abuse and adultery, among the other mistakes he chose to make. Then why this recurrence?
Dreams should be about vague, flaky thoughts that the brain subconsciously strings together into a game of connect-the-dots; not about recounting real-life events in accurate detail with additional effects to increase the scariness.
In the dream, his wife stared at me with accusing eyes, but I didn't move, and neither did he. It felt like nothing could move us or convince us to open our eyes to the truth.
I suppose it all comes down to connections between the brain and heart, because it's so much easier to influence a heart, but only very few manage to touch both. And when they do, you're in deep trouble.
My eyes were closed to his secret life and selfish intent, but now they are open.
That ship has sailed. These dreams will stop.
No more nightmares.

No comments:

Post a Comment