Saturday, 23 February 2013

Dreaming of an author

I dreamed I could play the piano. That I sat down and laid my fingers on the keys and made up a song. People stopped and listened. You came up behind me, and with a smile laid you hand on my elbow. When I turned to leave, you hugged me. You smiled, looked at me with a simple fondness I haven't seen in years. You were there behind me, hand in mine, supporting me, grounding me, as I faced down uncertainties and triggers. You understood, and silently, with a touch of your skin to mine, you were my reassurance.

I miss you. And maybe part of what I miss is a memory. But I know you're still her, in all the ways that matter. I'm still me. I think, just maybe, we could still be us. But maybe not. Maybe all it is is nostalgia. Melancholy yearning for an imagined past.

It's not fair, the way my mind plays tricks with me. If only a time-traveller could document my memories, make a timeline of my heart and yours, take statements and accounts that could be analysed and understood, and write a history of how we got from there to here. If only someone had been watching, and could explain to me everything I have forgotten and distorted and dreamed into a facsimile of reality. Then they could write me like a character in a book, with motivations and reliable narration and emotional development. They could show me how I feel, and why. They could show me what I should do. They could write my life for me, because all the drafts I can manage would end up in the editor's shredder.

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