To feel anything deranges you. To be seen feeling anything strips you naked. | Anne Carson
I dream of rooms made of windows and digging in the earth. Of wide open spaces where the sun says its final farewells each day through grand old trees. Standing up to wipe the human from my brow, hands on hips, breathe it in - the everything of this moment, an elusive yet constant companion never to be encapsulated. Little feet run around me. Sturdy shelves stacked with books and mementos from times before now. I dream of sunlight and of shadow and of pulling the hair up out of my face. I dream of familiar voices calling from the other room, of relishing that as the blessing it is. Of kisses from the same lips of the same man in the same bed every night until we die. Singing lullabies to his blue eyes in a new creature all our own. Writing and building and filling my mind.
There are times I convince myself it's silly, all of this dreaming. But, after all, dreams turn into things. What else could?