She woke up from her dream and her dream was you. And I don’t mean that like she had been in love with you and one day she awoke from that love and started pulling away? I mean it literally.
She woke up from her dream. And her dream was you. And I don’t mean that like she’d dreamed about you because you are her one or were her one, or will or could be her one? You are thinking too much like some romantic film, but romance isn’t what we’re talking about here. Is it because I used feminine pronouns for her? So often in this culture establishing a female main character in focus leads people to believe the story is romantic or, at least, sexual. Even women, even women only interested in men, they’re trained to think it about a romance. Or a lust at a barest minimum. This is about love but not that kind of love. She woke up from her dream and her dream was you.
All of you. Your entire life, not just you as a person, not just the things you’ve done or the places you’ve seen, everything. Mush from the aero-plane spoon in your high-chair to the slab they laid you out when you died. Or anyway, if you’re still alive, the one they will when you do. She knew all of it and she knows all of it, she always will, as time works differently in dream, even for her.
All your dreams are dreams within her dreams and she felt every one of them. Waking aspiration and night hallucination all the same, all of your dreams reside within her memories. Your talents and your hopes and your terrible awful flaws, all the successes that made you lazy or ungrateful, all the failures that made you compassionate and wise. The totality of your existence unspooled, end-to-end, fraying tip of thread to fraying tip of thread. She dreamed you. Keeps dreaming you.
Some people call her Sophia the goddess of Wisdom, or Logos the word of the Abrahamic God. Names are something she likes, finds them silly and nice, but she doesn’t pay them much mind.
Names come and go and fade and change like old stickers on a teenager’s cell phone case, like clouds pass by and dissipate while we argue if they look like cute bunny rabbits or the Rapture.
What matters for Sophia is the kaleidoscopic wonder of her dreams and of her dreams’ dreams.
You’re the dreams within her fitful slumber. So am I, so are you, so’s everyone and everything. When she sleeps, we are all very-almost as real as she is. When she wakes, we are the sparkles fading into the back-sides of her eyes as she rouses for her morning coffee. Turkish coffee, she likes that best. Strong and bracing, just like the truth of being truly-honestly completely awake.
But despite her majestic strengths, the question remains, who are we if we ourselves wake up?
Loading comments...