[wm] 77.3 - what's wanted
wm #77.3 - jesus jones lyrics
She dreams of it now, in the quiet moments just before she wakes up, when the day is breaking and all she wants is to stay asleep and remain in the peace of the dreamworld for as long as she can. Nearly every day since that warm late-summer day in the sun, she dreams of it.
In her dream, she's lying in the grass, bare and natural, the way she came into the world. The soft, cool grass warms under her skin, and she can smell the small purple flowers dotted around her, crushed under the weight of her body, and yet she feels light, weightless, as if she's made of different stuff. Her body used to be wet from swimming in the nearby lagoon, but is now dry-- her hair, fanned out around her head and tangled beneath it, still soggy but warming up in the sun.
The beautiful sun. It's brighter, somehow, in Oz than it is on Earth, but equally as warm, equally as comforting. She closes her eyes and she can feel it on every inch of her skin, warm, loving, like an embrace. It dries the last bits of sweat off of her skin, the drops that had pooled in her clavicle, between her breasts, on her belly, and it sings a song of promise to her, that there would be more days like this, more time spent alone with the trees and the water and the sky and the sun and her body, and the other body.
In her dream she turns her head to him, and she's so exhausted, so happily spent that it feels almost herculean to manage. His skin is so pale in the bright afternoon light of the magic country that he seems to glow like a star, and perhaps he is. She can still feel the burn of him throbbing with her pulse, slow and steady. It seems almost ridiculous how still he is, lying under the weight of the sky-- he is a perpetual motion machine, always the cogs turning, the lights blinking, the dials spinning out of control. Running away. And somehow in the aftermath of their love he is content to lie beside her in the grass and breathe, and she is content to watch his chest rise and fall, his eyes closed to the sun.
She wonders what he thinks; she does not ask. Some secrets are meant to be kept.
There's no time in her dream-- it shifts, unbidden, lazy summer day bleeding to all-too-quickly-gone. Late afternoon sun begins to dip below the treeline and the sky shifts its colors, purples, pinks, poppy red and shining gold, and a breeze blows over her body, and she's cold again, falling into shadow. She wants warmth again-- she wants something to cover her skin. A blanket, she needs a blanket--
--She turns to her side in bed, dragging the covers over her shivering shoulders, trying to cling to the last of her fading dream, even as it melts away in her mind, becoming lost to the ephemera of a waking consciousness. It's like this every day now, and the end is always the same.
She's growing cold. Growing insecure, doubting. A life lived for so long alone, now radically altered and measured with someone else's yardstick. It's easier to care for hundreds of thousands of people than to honestly love one, and this love will test her, oh yes it will. But for the memory of that late-summer afternoon, for the dream of that moment under the sun, alone, just herself and someone else, she is willing to be tested. She will tear away her skin and turn it to the sky, and let God and Glinda and anyone else judge what lies beneath. Only she will decide how to be happy, only Dorothy, and the sun.
She dreams of it now, in the quiet moments just before she wakes up, when the day is breaking and all she wants is to stay asleep and remain in the peace of the dreamworld for as long as she can. Nearly every day since that warm late-summer day in the sun, she dreams of it.
In her dream, she's lying in the grass, bare and natural, the way she came into the world. The soft, cool grass warms under her skin, and she can smell the small purple flowers dotted around her, crushed under the weight of her body, and yet she feels light, weightless, as if she's made of different stuff. Her body used to be wet from swimming in the nearby lagoon, but is now dry-- her hair, fanned out around her head and tangled beneath it, still soggy but warming up in the sun.
The beautiful sun. It's brighter, somehow, in Oz than it is on Earth, but equally as warm, equally as comforting. She closes her eyes and she can feel it on every inch of her skin, warm, loving, like an embrace. It dries the last bits of sweat off of her skin, the drops that had pooled in her clavicle, between her breasts, on her belly, and it sings a song of promise to her, that there would be more days like this, more time spent alone with the trees and the water and the sky and the sun and her body, and the other body.
In her dream she turns her head to him, and she's so exhausted, so happily spent that it feels almost herculean to manage. His skin is so pale in the bright afternoon light of the magic country that he seems to glow like a star, and perhaps he is. She can still feel the burn of him throbbing with her pulse, slow and steady. It seems almost ridiculous how still he is, lying under the weight of the sky-- he is a perpetual motion machine, always the cogs turning, the lights blinking, the dials spinning out of control. Running away. And somehow in the aftermath of their love he is content to lie beside her in the grass and breathe, and she is content to watch his chest rise and fall, his eyes closed to the sun.
She wonders what he thinks; she does not ask. Some secrets are meant to be kept.
There's no time in her dream-- it shifts, unbidden, lazy summer day bleeding to all-too-quickly-gone. Late afternoon sun begins to dip below the treeline and the sky shifts its colors, purples, pinks, poppy red and shining gold, and a breeze blows over her body, and she's cold again, falling into shadow. She wants warmth again-- she wants something to cover her skin. A blanket, she needs a blanket--
--She turns to her side in bed, dragging the covers over her shivering shoulders, trying to cling to the last of her fading dream, even as it melts away in her mind, becoming lost to the ephemera of a waking consciousness. It's like this every day now, and the end is always the same.
She's growing cold. Growing insecure, doubting. A life lived for so long alone, now radically altered and measured with someone else's yardstick. It's easier to care for hundreds of thousands of people than to honestly love one, and this love will test her, oh yes it will. But for the memory of that late-summer afternoon, for the dream of that moment under the sun, alone, just herself and someone else, she is willing to be tested. She will tear away her skin and turn it to the sky, and let God and Glinda and anyone else judge what lies beneath. Only she will decide how to be happy, only Dorothy, and the sun.