The Dreams of Bright Things

Wisps of moonlight, strands of desire, a pinch of stardust, a sprig of laughter, a dash of conversation, a tear or two (depending on how strong you like it), must all be placed within the crucible of a perfect day and whipped until peaks are seen, garnish these peaks with hope (but not too much) and you have yourself a dream. They are difficult things to make, dreams. The recipe, like the product, is duplicitous. It's hardly a stir-and-serve type of affair! The crucible must be carefully chosen, some dreams disintegrate in the wrong day. One must add to and stir one's dream with a firm hand, evenly mixing in the ingredients. An extra tear will make your dream too runny, too much hope will poison you. But most of all, your dream must be protected from contamination. Dreams decay fast; and the stench of decaying dreams kills everything it wafts over.

Foolish Mortals.

We met by moonlight, the two of us, dreamers, fools. By moonlight did we meet, and come sunlight we parted. The crucible was perfect: slightly warm with clear skies by day, and little silver slipper of a moon by night. The meeting itself was precious: where one was delicate, the other was steely, where one blew hot, the other blew cold, where one had already decided, the other didn't know what was what. There was a dance that night, a high-school style prom for college students with bad memories. Sirens like Lady Gaga sang portentously of bad romances as we grinded lasciviously on the dance floor. It turns out that I have the boundaries of a whore on tequila. Minus the tequila. And then there was goofy, ever-smiling Janice. She went alone, the fifth wheel to two couples, and, personable as she is, fell into the a group of dancers. Finally her attentions scoped out a certain semi-attached someone, and as she managed to sever him away from his commitment, the word 'home-wrecker' was whispered with a malicious sibilance. No malice was meant, for the heart wants what the heart wants.
My dream was maturing, the dance led to the solitude of my room, and I...I couldn't do it. I tweaked out, because I wasn't ready. Big brown eyes full of everlasting affection, Holy God, if only I could vanish. It's so gut-wrenching, this business of breaking hearts! It doesn't help that I went into 'hyper-RA' mode to make sure that the damage wasn't too extensive. But I had to run away! I had to! I couldn't do it, and I didn't want to abandon a relationship in the middle of the road....
But what a beautiful night it was: dancing pairs, unknown things, and so much given to remember. It was all there: the passion, the desire, the laughter, the hope...what a beautiful dream it was! But I had to run away, because it was just like a dream! As the sun rose, the foul dust that flew from rumpled sheets stuck to our dream, and a rot set in. I had to run away, I couldn't do it. I am damned either way, however. I shall be demonized for what I did, not only externally, but internally too. Such is the price I shall pay for honesty. I blame no-one, I do not protest the outrage, because it is just. I was bad, very bad, in fact, so it makes sense that I be punished for it. Such is the way things are with decaying dreams, when bright things come to folly, so shall my name live in infamy. At least, for a while.

Pretty Farce/ No Caddy, not that Blackguard!

The past fortnight has delivered the following upon my hands: an unabashedly giggling Janice, revelling in and revealing the many sweet nothings and piquant somethings that her far-flung beloved whispers and texts, and the consequences of my own heart-break related actions. Janice astounds me! My friendship with Janice astounds me too. For here I am, recounting the most recent spate of the passive-aggressive viciousness that I exchange with a paramour of a dream deliquesced, and she! She will suddenly tremble with laughter, and reveal a juicy tidbit with the air of one hiding a lump of jaggery in the folds of her skirt. In her excitement, my problem disappears momentarily, and I partake of the sweetness she offers. Then, as Janice prepares to return, she gives me a hug that leaves behind an emollient coolness on my skin, and, for a while, I am calm.
The last conversation I had with my blameless friend whose world I trampled, was not as passive-aggressive. For one, frightening verbs like 'lie' were bandied about, and I took this as calmly as I could. Secondly, the name of a yesterday was thrown about rather casually as well, and this left me trembling. The first time that that name was said was a dagger in me, and every consequent time was that dagger being twisted. Gasping for air, I realised that I still held a piece of that poisonous decaying dream on hand: I still dreamed that the past would return. Oh what a fool to have fallen for the pretty farces of someone who never cared! Debasing myself in search of alarming answers...and I still held a low, intensely burning torch for a dead dream that can never be! Lord, what fools these mortals be! Messy and damaged, I tapped into a rather potent resource: my cousin Caddy. Over a long, tearful, trans-Atlantic phone call, I blabbed my story to her, and she rewarded me with a very similar story of her own! You'd think we synchronised it! If Janice and I are on opposite sides of a turning wheel, Caddy and I might just be sharing a position on the selfsame. We are to be each other's strength now : I will protect her from That Blackguard, and she will protect me from mine.
With the tides of time and consequence playing fast and loose with my own biochemistry, I ended up tanking a biochemistry exam. How salvageable this situation is , I do not know. I am still in shock and alexithymia, and haven't really thought of damage control yet. I did have a bit of an episode in the professor's office, humiliating is a word that comes to mind. God, I had promised myself that I would never be one of those kids whose emotional lives cast their umbra upon their professional lives, and an unpleasant eclipse of intellect transpires. The Uterus, I could work with, but this is suddenly getting way too much. I lost a promotion, I believe, because of this too. My paranoia is so bad, that I am convinced that the internships that I have lost have been because of the researchers peering through a telescope into the mayhem that is my life and selecting against me, in favour of someone more well-adjusted and capable of separating the two seemingly immiscible parts of his life. Even now, the far-away song of a promising text seems to liquefy the wax that is now my resolve.

What am I do with myself? What am I to do with all these dreams that I am distilling? Perhaps, I shall bottle them, seal them with Janice's laughing breath, and place them in a crisp winter sun so that they can age from Dream to Memory. Because there are dreams that disintegrate, and so cannot be. No matter how cogent our minds may be, the heart wants what the heart wants.

To the next time,
GossipGuy.