The moon is still full and pregnant in my dream, dancing across the sky as it did in my reality only a week or so ago. It’s harmonized with the baby child wrapped in blankets beside me. What a dream. I make a horrible mother. She is brown skinned with deep chocolate eyes, and tiny fingers staring up at me. I listen to her heart beat silently, and shake her to make sure she is still alive. This baby child has shown up in my dreams before, the night before but that dream is not as cross as this one. I leave her alone, in a humongous house and expect nothing to happen to her. Guilt riddles me as I awake from this madness. The house I lived in full of emptiness and the land before it flooded with not enough space, houses upon each other as if they were shields from the outside world.
Apparently these sort of dreams (which I’ve never had until now) are significant. Most often I have dreamt of being pregnant but not of an actual baby. In a way I have been in a deep, dark, scary place for some time, and perhaps it is time my dreams reflect that. The neglect of oneself rearing it’s ugly head into my subconscious. Lately I’ve been feeling spoon fed of ideas I’d like to construct and then I find myself complacent, even lethargic. I have rubbed myself wrong this year and there is so little solace inside myself. I am haunted by my own insanity, by the madness that has often surrounded me. I hate my body but this is not new for I’ve struggled with this hatred since adolescence although never developed the disorders many women my age did at the peak of fashion mags in the nineties showing heroin chic chicks like Kate Moss wrapped in skin and bones. I was thinner then though, my metabolism quicker to wrap everything up and wash it away – I walked longer.
I’ve been avoiding work emails, and phone calls. Why do I do this? It’s almost as if I cannot stand the idea of pressing myself to the camera lens right now. I am too raw at least it feels this way. If it is not for a friend I cannot bear my soul for green paper that I will throw away anyway on something stupid, and whimsical. I want to break away from the heartbreak that has haunted me these years, shed my skin and start anew. Strange that most recently a man told me it was obvious that I was a woman who had had her heart savaged. Is it that obvious? Do I wear the scar on the outside as readily as it is on the inside? Some people see me better than others. Although someone very close to me told me that I do not seem okay. What does this even mean anymore?
Once had, barely forgotten. I am always fascinated by people who had not seemed to genuinely be in love – for then would you desire someone else? I do not want the kind of love that is shared. I wish I could be that way. I have tried so hard to shape my romanticism into something other than what I am. I suppress everything though as if I were a bottle nipped shut by a cork. How do people recover from the tenderness of true love? I wish I could wrap my head around my heart and turn it’s strangeness into logic. Is it true even when it ends?