In my dreams;

In my dreams, there are only distances, and what I can and can’t do to prepare for them:

A public procession;

meeting an ex;

being friends again with someone estranged;

going back to places I should abandon.

If a nightmare descends, my subconscious wakes me up with threats from the outside world:

I have a vagina,

I have a heart,

I have a soul.

I am at risk. I am always at a risk.

I won’t assign meaning to any of this: No flying, no falling teeth, no colored snakes.

It’s people I should hate, but yearn to get affection or validation from.

It’s the intimacy I can’t have without the force of domination.

It’s being an impostor, being caught, in public, in the middle of something and everything.

People dream of what they desire. I don’t desire truth and love in my dreams. I desire sex, I desire safety, I desire stability. Everything else, one must desire from love. But my conscious brain knows it’s a wrong place to start, and the former is better.

But I know better: Every kind of love has a price.

In college, my roommate and I had tea together once a day and discussed our dreams. I talked in detail — describing the storyline of rollercoaster movie plots and entertaining her with my personal performance. It was all part of being my friend — you become an audience. And you must pick the corner seats if you want to see through some of it. Up close I’m perfect and imperfect, but so entertaining.

My grandmom found my lighter in my jeans pocket and decided to question me further. I didn’t lie, I didn’t tell her that I smoked either. Later, I would dream of the conversation. Over and over, in a new setting, until it became boring and mundane. A lot of my dreams seem like that on off days — just a recount of daily incidents. And all the attention that it gets.

I dream of sex and chaos and conversations and exhibition and never peace, never love, never whole truths. My dreams are a mirror. My dreams are me.