Rêve

I have always been one to believe our dreams are a way to see inside ourselves. A guide of sorts, through our subconcious mind. To find what we are missing out on in daily life. Dreams have always helped me to understand what I cannot see directly in front of me.

They are usually quite vivid. So real that I cannot distinguish between waking and sleep. I dream in color, with sounds and shadows. I remember each dream I have, and can usually remember them for years and years.

Last night, I dreamt of him. The Artist. After all this time. How long has it been since I've seen him? Four years? Five? I cannot recall. But yet there he was, with his Marlboro's, his smoky blue eyes. His laugh, infectious. I wonder what he looks like now. Now that he is a man, no longer a boy. He would be, what, 27 now? I wonder if he's still thin. If he still drinks coffee at 2 in the morning. If he ever drank that expensive bottle of french red I left at his apartment that late, cold March evening.

I think I loved him. In my 21 year old way, I did. He was alive on the inside. Tortured, as most artists are. He often told me over the phone that I was the only woman he'd ever love. Because I understood him. My naive mind (and heart) believed him, because I wanted to hear those things from him. To believe he would eventually decide that, even hours apart by car, we should be together. I tortured myself. By him, I tortured myself. The way he talked about sex, about getting high, about creating. It made me want to be a part of him. To be inside of him somehow. And we sat on the couch, watching Empire of the Sun, just waiting. Sweating. Hoping he would reach for me. He could never bridge the distance. Then again, neither could I.

I am sure that there is a part of me that will always be a part of him. That, happily married, I will always love him. We have this history, the two of us. It started in 1994, senior year of high school, when he sat behind me in French class. We always said, that if in ten years we weren't married, we would get together. Little did we know, four years later, how close we would become.

I don't know much about his whereabouts. I believe he is an art teacher in Peoria, Illinois at present, as well as a real working artist out there. It makes me so very happy to know he is still at it... his passion.

The Artist. How I miss my Jean Paul...