Listen up because this is important: last night I had a dream about you. Note here that 'you' is something I say with a specific definition in mind. I am not talking about you, my reader, or you, the person who makes my heart go all a-flutter and who forcefeeds me caterpillars, or ever you, silly person of the general populace. This isn't a Dear Person letter, a demand, a rant, a dedication or even a sensical (sensible? a thing with sense) blog post.
That's the problem with dreams. They are so very hard to define and because they're abstract, it's impossible to slap them in the face even when you sorely sorely really really truly badly want to. I've had dreams where I died, at my own hands; dreams where I jumped off cliffs, only to fall in love; dreams where I forgot what colors are right; dreams that made me not want to wake up; dreams where I would have rather amputated my own thumbs using a nail clipper than go back to sleep. These latter dreams are perhaps the best because they are catapults of the mind, they eject you from bed and make you wash the dishes or fix your closet or dance or write in a journal, anything oh god please just so I don't have to try and fall asleep again and feel that terrible heavy weight on my chest and feel the eyes of the supernatural or the imagined naturally super on me and my skin.
The short and short of it: I know I had a dream last night and that it was stressful. I know that now, in the morning sunlight, my chest is tight and it feels like a worm composed of drill bits is vacationing in my ventricles. I know from the scratches that run parallel to my fibula that it was not a good dream, that I wanted to wake up. Or maybe that it was too hot a night and my tendency to battle the heat with an assault of fingernails on skin, a persistent little back and forth, a shallow digging into epidermal tissue that is supposed to, in some way, scare off the dry air from touching me, like when you wave fans back and forth over fresh food or rotting corpses to scare away flies. Maybe I should not have worn pajama pants. Boxers or underwear or the nude would have been a better idea.
I have no idea who it was I dreamed of last night but I can tell you this: I went to bed and closed my eyes at 10:57 last night and it took me about another hour to claim my prize of REM. All this time I was possessed by the urge and the need to kiss and perhaps that explains the delay, maybe again it was just the goddamn hot hot heat. This morning I was awake almost an hour before my alarm was set to ring and the urge to feel lips against mine has not yet left and I have no freaking clue what to do about this.