The arrest of my cynical descent
I have come to a point in my life where I have begun to believe that my life's spark has been leaking out since birth, with regularity, such that by the end of my life I will be a shuffling, joyless husk. Fucking pessimistic I know. But it just feels that I am decreasingly able to experience the kind of soul-rending passion that has marked the high points of my life. Perhaps it is a life of artfully reckless drug use, or, more likely, I believe, it's the inevitable result of getting older; and those who do not feel the same decline, merely lack the self-awareness to have noticed. But there is another possible explanation, and this epiphany occurred to me because of a dream I had last night.
Having nodded off on the couch, before even going to bed, I had this dream. And I am dead serious when I say that it was the most intense dream of my life. I woke up and could not breathe, could not think for I was so aglow with the aftereffects of its blinding radiance. I cannot properly put words to it, but I will summarize by saying that in this dream I am a man who has become so unbelievably deeply in love, that it eclipses all my other emotions to utter meaninglessness. I tasted last night, in my sleep, the distillation of human passion. In the dream, there was some vague plot which required that I, for some reason or other, immolate, perhaps by exposure to a nuclear explosion or some such. And though the experience was torture, like I said, all other feelings were meaningless next to my love. All I thought, as I burned, was how after this, she would be safe, after this we'll be together, and even if not, having been together at all has been more glorious than anyone has ever deserved. Seriously. Fuckin' Edward and Bella shit here; except I got to FEEL it. I got to BE Edward.
I woke up breathless, and as I got my breath, I used it to sob. I felt so complete, so warm and magnificent, but I knew it was going to melt away. I didn't want to go back to sleep, because I knew sleep would wash away any part of the magical depth of my experience. I went to Llewellyn, who slept in my bed, and I embraced her and told her, crying like a maniac, something of how I felt, garbled by my sleep-retardation. I don't expect she even remembers. But I needed to embrace her, even though I was terrified of sleeping. And the experience was similar enough to my dream that the warmth still with me put me immediately to sleep.
When I woke up to the alarm, it occurred to me that depths of passion yet unexperienced are still within my grasp. I imagine that my heart is simply more compartmentalized now, so it's harder for the average whim to move me, but maybe if all the correct locks and mazes built by the years are properly navigated, maybe I can blow away everything come before.
Having nodded off on the couch, before even going to bed, I had this dream. And I am dead serious when I say that it was the most intense dream of my life. I woke up and could not breathe, could not think for I was so aglow with the aftereffects of its blinding radiance. I cannot properly put words to it, but I will summarize by saying that in this dream I am a man who has become so unbelievably deeply in love, that it eclipses all my other emotions to utter meaninglessness. I tasted last night, in my sleep, the distillation of human passion. In the dream, there was some vague plot which required that I, for some reason or other, immolate, perhaps by exposure to a nuclear explosion or some such. And though the experience was torture, like I said, all other feelings were meaningless next to my love. All I thought, as I burned, was how after this, she would be safe, after this we'll be together, and even if not, having been together at all has been more glorious than anyone has ever deserved. Seriously. Fuckin' Edward and Bella shit here; except I got to FEEL it. I got to BE Edward.
I woke up breathless, and as I got my breath, I used it to sob. I felt so complete, so warm and magnificent, but I knew it was going to melt away. I didn't want to go back to sleep, because I knew sleep would wash away any part of the magical depth of my experience. I went to Llewellyn, who slept in my bed, and I embraced her and told her, crying like a maniac, something of how I felt, garbled by my sleep-retardation. I don't expect she even remembers. But I needed to embrace her, even though I was terrified of sleeping. And the experience was similar enough to my dream that the warmth still with me put me immediately to sleep.
When I woke up to the alarm, it occurred to me that depths of passion yet unexperienced are still within my grasp. I imagine that my heart is simply more compartmentalized now, so it's harder for the average whim to move me, but maybe if all the correct locks and mazes built by the years are properly navigated, maybe I can blow away everything come before.