Rant and rave. Hem and haw.
Euphoria
I couldn't have swirled about if I wanted to. No,the dream was too intense, too accusing, for me to be able to pull away gracefully.
And so I was yanked out of it. Mid-siesta, with my mouth hanging open, brows sweaty over eyes that were never even closed in the first place. Tell me Tovs, how much does one pay for a dream dreamt semi-awake? Especially if it's one of regret, misgiving, and deep-seated wishes?
I'm not being abstract, or obtuse. We did agree sometime, anytime, a year out of college, that we pay for the mistakes we make. And so here we are, dreaming about the unlived life, the unchosen path, until we can no longer live vicariously through books.
Just this afternoon I dreamt of that stage, you were standing by the podium talking about your indie film, the one that made it through the cut, the one that won the pitch, the one thing you said you had to crawl with to the top, for only then can you rest and turn your back against the world. I agree with you. Vehemently. I, too, want my moment in time to take that gravel-grinding, scraping pivot to the world of about-faces. But first, you said, we make our point.
Ah yes, the point. The point being that we allowed ourselves to get too bloodied even when the battle hasn't even started yet. You allowed yourself to think that you were really alone, edgy, flightless, and I allowed myself to believe what they said. "Don't take that art course, darling. You'll never make it if you aren't one of the best."
It was the same for you, I know, the same for the rest of us. We hid among the shadows and asked and asked and asked. And bought and bought and bought fancy things to compensate. Ate in the fanciest,most absurd restaurants. Rode our credit cards to death. Toasted each other with exotically brewed coffee, waving our noses about, laughing shrill, hollow, shrieking laughs. Then stumble home at four a.m., face the bathroom mirror and wonder when did we start feeling so old.
And then finally, one breaks out of the stupor. Like a car accident we knew would happen, both of us watched, enthralled as he slammed the brakes and just waited for the impact. One after the other. The declarations. I don't need money anymore. I can't help what I dream. You can't help who you are.
Crash. Crash. Crash.
We watch transfixed as he quit his job and ran pell-mell to design school. Months later, limbs a little askew but healed, joints finally aligned, he smiles up at us blearily saying the most magnificently brilliant words like tinkling music to our hungry ears, "I'm happy."
And in a frightened whisper, I ask you what can no longer be denied. "What if we could have been one of the best?"
There were definitely no eureka moments. No gut-wrenching, tear-jerking scenes, but the next time we spoke, you have started your screenplay. And I have started living through my stories again. We are scruffy, crusty and a little torn at the seams but once again, I find myself staring at the moon, lost in thought, as your pen made scratchy sounds as you mercilessly edited one draft after the other.
The right to dream. And if dreams aren't really free, then by the Gods, let's ask how much they are and try to save up enough to buy them! And only then will we know true euphoria and ovation. And we'll suffer rejection. And harsh criticism. But never apathy again.
And if they ever, EVER, dare ask us again how much these dreams are worth, we'll say, "Enough to feed my fantasies till the next glorious day, which is more than could be said for the reality of the unlived, unmastered life of a person too afraid to fly."
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