Friday, May 21, 2010
Fourth Meal
Work. Play. Sleep: the consumptions of the day. To dream and to be cognizant of doing so is excess. Some dream with gluttonous regularity while others suffer from anorexia.
I lay in bed half naked, fully sweaty, ribs visible. A smell of carne y amor came into my room like some perverse union of Taco Bell and a heart-shaped box of Godiva chocolate.
In the darkness I fondled an envelope. It had a letter from her. Two, actually, as if she was attempting to make up for lost time. Lost questions. Lost answers. Lost time. Lost paradise.
I glanced at the back of the first letter. Saw words that are meant to be meant. Words that have meaning to me. Heart-shape was almost in my mouth. The perversion was almost overwhelming.
Instinctively, I put the letter back in the envelope, folded it like a Burrito Supreme, and ran for the border of my dream like a skeletal lost soul during El Día de los Muertos.
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- Suppose I'm guilty of being a glutton, then.
ReplyDelete- Is this the dream you mentioned on FB the other day?
- Nice imagery in that last line.
- As I've mentioned before, I tend to have a lot of very frantic dreams. Even so, whatever peril I may be in during such dreams, the only ones that leave me troubled later are the ones that get intensely personal.
'Twas the selfsame dream, sir.
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