In Which Andy Is Real Once Again
Dreams are cruel.
I guess they're not exactly cruel at this point, because it doesn't sting as much to wake up and remember that whatever I was thinking is actually just an empty space beside me. That Andy space has really done a nice job of fading, lately, but when I have a dream about him living and breathing beside me, something in me seems to robotically take up its ice cream scoop and hollow out that oozing place in my mind that is slowly but surely rebuilding itself. Each dream just takes me a tiny step backwards. While most every night I have regular old dreams, involving octopus and tap dancing and Will Rubio and whatnot, Andy is always there, too--always. Almost never talking, just standing in the background. A two-dimensional Andy, who doesn't speak, doesn't move. Yes, like a cardboard cutout. Rather unnerving.
This has come to stop bothering me, because it's just become so habitual. However, last night I had a dream in which he came alive again. He lived, he breathed, he hugged me, he cried a little, and he said he was sorry. It trained me, this dream that was probably five minutes long, into thinking that once again that space was filled. That it didn't need to continue to heal, because it was refilled and new and promising. He had black hair in my dream, which was so weird. We held each other. We stood besides my yellow fiberglass slide in my parents' backyard. We haven't touched in one of my dreams yet, until last night. Thank God this dream waited six weeks to come along, because I'm sure it would have been a doozy any earlier than today.
Please go away, Andy. Stay out of my mind. I want you to live in peace in your corner of Provo because I love you and I want you to heal. I want me to live in peace here with my family because I love myself and I want myself to heal.
Andy is not coming back. And I am OK with that. The conscious me is OK with it. So suck it, subconscious. You aren't going to to trip me up and gag me with such a silly maneuver. It was just a dream.
I guess they're not exactly cruel at this point, because it doesn't sting as much to wake up and remember that whatever I was thinking is actually just an empty space beside me. That Andy space has really done a nice job of fading, lately, but when I have a dream about him living and breathing beside me, something in me seems to robotically take up its ice cream scoop and hollow out that oozing place in my mind that is slowly but surely rebuilding itself. Each dream just takes me a tiny step backwards. While most every night I have regular old dreams, involving octopus and tap dancing and Will Rubio and whatnot, Andy is always there, too--always. Almost never talking, just standing in the background. A two-dimensional Andy, who doesn't speak, doesn't move. Yes, like a cardboard cutout. Rather unnerving.
This has come to stop bothering me, because it's just become so habitual. However, last night I had a dream in which he came alive again. He lived, he breathed, he hugged me, he cried a little, and he said he was sorry. It trained me, this dream that was probably five minutes long, into thinking that once again that space was filled. That it didn't need to continue to heal, because it was refilled and new and promising. He had black hair in my dream, which was so weird. We held each other. We stood besides my yellow fiberglass slide in my parents' backyard. We haven't touched in one of my dreams yet, until last night. Thank God this dream waited six weeks to come along, because I'm sure it would have been a doozy any earlier than today.
Please go away, Andy. Stay out of my mind. I want you to live in peace in your corner of Provo because I love you and I want you to heal. I want me to live in peace here with my family because I love myself and I want myself to heal.
Andy is not coming back. And I am OK with that. The conscious me is OK with it. So suck it, subconscious. You aren't going to to trip me up and gag me with such a silly maneuver. It was just a dream.