(no subject)
So, summer's over. and I'm still alive.
I don't really talk to ... anyone on the internet anymore. I wonder if that means I'm an antisocial beast. *shrugs*
I dream of him, sometimes. The man they say is the man of my dreams. But the dreams never seem to start with just him. Always is the smell of the cold, first. The smell of winter. A smell noticeable for its absence of scent. It’s always cold in these dreams I have. The chamber, the floor, the bedcover. Even the fire seems to lack heat, or some magic keeps it from heating the chair so close to it.
When these dreams started, I couldn’t get past the cold I dreamt to think of anything else. I don’t remember if he was in them or not. But as I began to notice other things, he was always watching me. In all the years I’ve dreamt of him, he’s never changed. His hair is always an inky mass of waves that float around his head, covering his ears and part of his face. His nose is always narrow, with nostrils flaring open like he’s trying to find a smell besides cold in this room. His cheeks are always slightly hollow and high on his face and his lips are always a thin, firm-set line. His eyebrows ever arched and framing eyes every bit as icy as the room is- the color is so light I can never tell if it’s blue or gray.
Neither his lips nor eyes seem to be made for smiling. In my dreams he stands by one of the chairs in front of the fire and watches me. When I was younger, that was all he would do. This vast, tall figure looking down on me, this furniture overlarge and imposing. And yet as I grew, he did not grow with me. The furniture is still vast, but not mountains made of wood and cushion. I’ve grown from barely being able to reach his navel to reaching his shoulders. I could look easily into his eyes, if I could find the courage to do so.
I read somewhere that recurring dreams are supposed to do just that- repeat exactly as they were. These, though, don’t seem to. Every so often, I’ll notice a piece of furniture is different. I spoke out loud about it once, and he nodded. Since then, when I dream of him, I pretend he doesn’t exist. I wander the room, playing in the closet or relaxing in the furniture. When I had jumped on the bed as a smaller child he stared at me dumbfounded. Now, I find myself reading books in languages I know I can’t understand and using the time in these dreams to consider problems in my real life. I would talk out loud and ramble. What does a statue care of my talking? But…
I made a comment about something I had read- one of the books in a language I’m not sure still exists. That was the first time I ever heard him make any noise, and his laughter woke me.
That was only a few weeks ago. I haven’t dreamed of him since, and I consider that a mercy. That laugh is still following me. I was expecting some high keening wail, or the sounds of ice being crushed- something as sharp as his eyes while they watch me in this room.
The fact his laughter was the warmest thing ever felt in that room or here should have calmed me. Instead, I was terrified.
~
I dunno why I decided to write instead of draw. I've been drawing a lot recently. *shrugs* or, at least, a lot more than I used to.
I don't really talk to ... anyone on the internet anymore. I wonder if that means I'm an antisocial beast. *shrugs*
I dream of him, sometimes. The man they say is the man of my dreams. But the dreams never seem to start with just him. Always is the smell of the cold, first. The smell of winter. A smell noticeable for its absence of scent. It’s always cold in these dreams I have. The chamber, the floor, the bedcover. Even the fire seems to lack heat, or some magic keeps it from heating the chair so close to it.
When these dreams started, I couldn’t get past the cold I dreamt to think of anything else. I don’t remember if he was in them or not. But as I began to notice other things, he was always watching me. In all the years I’ve dreamt of him, he’s never changed. His hair is always an inky mass of waves that float around his head, covering his ears and part of his face. His nose is always narrow, with nostrils flaring open like he’s trying to find a smell besides cold in this room. His cheeks are always slightly hollow and high on his face and his lips are always a thin, firm-set line. His eyebrows ever arched and framing eyes every bit as icy as the room is- the color is so light I can never tell if it’s blue or gray.
Neither his lips nor eyes seem to be made for smiling. In my dreams he stands by one of the chairs in front of the fire and watches me. When I was younger, that was all he would do. This vast, tall figure looking down on me, this furniture overlarge and imposing. And yet as I grew, he did not grow with me. The furniture is still vast, but not mountains made of wood and cushion. I’ve grown from barely being able to reach his navel to reaching his shoulders. I could look easily into his eyes, if I could find the courage to do so.
I read somewhere that recurring dreams are supposed to do just that- repeat exactly as they were. These, though, don’t seem to. Every so often, I’ll notice a piece of furniture is different. I spoke out loud about it once, and he nodded. Since then, when I dream of him, I pretend he doesn’t exist. I wander the room, playing in the closet or relaxing in the furniture. When I had jumped on the bed as a smaller child he stared at me dumbfounded. Now, I find myself reading books in languages I know I can’t understand and using the time in these dreams to consider problems in my real life. I would talk out loud and ramble. What does a statue care of my talking? But…
I made a comment about something I had read- one of the books in a language I’m not sure still exists. That was the first time I ever heard him make any noise, and his laughter woke me.
That was only a few weeks ago. I haven’t dreamed of him since, and I consider that a mercy. That laugh is still following me. I was expecting some high keening wail, or the sounds of ice being crushed- something as sharp as his eyes while they watch me in this room.
The fact his laughter was the warmest thing ever felt in that room or here should have calmed me. Instead, I was terrified.
~
I dunno why I decided to write instead of draw. I've been drawing a lot recently. *shrugs* or, at least, a lot more than I used to.