if only i had the time…

if only i had the money…

if only i had the words…

those things become crutches, excuses, diversions, distractions, ways out of uncomfortable moments, and, for me, they become a trap, a holding pattern.  and i get stuck.  waiting.  waiting.  waiting.  if only…

so, there was this boy—isn’t there always a boy?—and he made me smile, and then he moved away.  and if only i could see him again and talk things through — then, i could clear the air — then, it would all make sense — then, i could really say goodbye — then, i could move on.  of course, if onlys don’t actually happen.  at least not to me.  until that one night, just before dawn.

and so, it was me, and him, and the night — of that much, i’m certain.  the rest?  it might have been a dream.

it might not really matter.

that particular night was of the finest vintage — early october — cool, dark and deep, with a soft wind that sauntered around whispering of times past, and of innocence, and of falling stars.  it crept through the city blocks carrying with it the faintest hint of moisture — a promise that the dawn would be softened by a blanket of fog and a shimmering carpet of dew.  it was one of those rare nights that held a space for something important to step in.  or someone.

and there he was, and there we went, together.  and, i must admit, when the object of your if only is suddenly and unexpectedly there, with you, in the dark of a night as curiously magical as this particular night, something is bound to happen.

i never thought i would be here, like this, with you.  it’s like a dream.

and just like that,  my if only was handed to me on a gilded plate, topped with truffles and saffron threads and almas caviar.  just like i said i wanted.  just like i said i needed. and i froze.  i had nothing to say.  it was all a hoax.  i didn’t really want an if only, i wanted an excuse to hold on, because letting go meant admitting defeat, surrendering to an ending i didn’t want.  sitting with him that night, i realized that none of that really mattered, not anymore.  he had long since let go and moved on.  the ending was already written, i was just stuck waiting to turn the page.  so i surrendered, i let go of my if only, and so, we passed the time together — with words, and smiles, and laughter, and a single kiss on my cheek.  it was unencumbered and sweet beyond telling.

my if only had come and gone.  and i never really needed it in the first place.

goodbye.

we’re all riddled with fears and insecurities and expectations and entitlements. we’re all struggling to make sense of things and to move along without getting stuck waiting for something, or someone.  that night, though not a shadow of what i anticipated, was exactly what i needed, an object-lesson on letting go and living in the moment — me, and the boy, and the night.

and that’s something worth holding on to.

fluids and antihistamines and amoxicillin and acetaminophen and humidifiers and more fluids have filled my days.

today i woke up to something scrawled in my bedside journal.  i used to use it to record my dreams, but i’d given that up more than a few years ago.  i guess in the fog of sickness and recovery, an old habit returned for the night.

i have no idea what it means, but somewhere in my slumber, the colours came alive.

i close my eyes
and the colours begin swirling
around and around

i try to assign ranks and rivalries,
to declare a winner,
but the colours dissolve into a carpet
of leaves — rust, amber, cinnamon –
over and over
repeating

(you’ll never remember this)

the leaves begin to move
they become a river
only the water
is red — auburn, crimson, sanguine –
the colour of blood
(yours, mine)
it flows without pain or
source or consequence

there will be no accounting,
not this night.
only freedom
(mine, yours)
again and again

on a river of red

–William Shakespeare, The Tempest (IV, i, 156-157)

i am one of the lucky ones. sleep comes easily to me and it always has. when i hear stories from people who have insomnia, i cannot understand what it must be like to have problems falling asleep. for me it is as natural as breathing.

sleep is my daily comfort. it is safe and warm and rejuvinating. it is my escape and my return. it is the period at the end of my day.

i used to keep a dream journal. it stayed on my night stand and each morning, as soon as i opened my eyes, i would record what i remembered from my dreams. every so often, i look through that journal and when i read about the dreams, they come alive again in my mind. most are just non-sensical combinations of random people, places and events. but there are a few that seem to be something more. sometimes i wish i had not stopped recording my dreams. sometimes i think i should start my journal again. sometimes i think that dreams might actually reveal something significant that lies just below the threshold of consciousness. sometimes i think i think too much.

sitting here this morning, i cannot recall the last dream i had. it seems that if i don’t capture them with words, they evaporate into the morning light and are lost forever along with whatever truth they were trying to communicate.