i don’t always remember my dreams. in fact, i’m sure i remember only a tiny fraction of them, shards of my fantastical midnight wanderings flashing back like stolen mirrors held up to the nature of my subconscious. if i looked at myself through the lens of my dreams, would i recognize my own reflection surfacing amidst the filmy haze?

i’ve often considered recording those dreams i do happen to remember, as i’m sure many people do, and using them as inspiration for my writing (or perhaps as scintilating conversation pieces for the more mundane of my first dates). i’ve yet to focus my diligence toward a dream journal, but maybe one day. i’ll file this away in my overflowing pile of “but i should really dos” and move on…

about a month ago, i awoke with a near tangible fragment of an unexpected dream nearly begging me to write it down and remember it as a stolen moment. it was of him, a him i once knew and don’t at all anymore, and all i recall is the gravity of his dark eyes upon me as we fell into words in ways only he and i could:

“tell me about your faith and your hair,” he said, holding my gaze across the space between us.
“three years, and you instinctively ask that?” i couldn’t feign my surprise.
“they always were your best things,” he said.

and even in my dream, i knew it was the truth.

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