Aren’t they wild, these dreams that we have? As wild as those delicious juicy red berries growing amongst the wild baby’s breath in the dark thick corner of woodland sticking out into your backyard, making its presence known. They are just as easily picked off, killed, forgotten, buried under a new layer of life.
But God these dreams will eat at you, devour you as the greedy birds do the berries. Sometimes the intense longing makes you want to scream, a long wild wave of sound.
At least in screaming there is action, unlike living silently repressed by the weight of your dreams. Isn’t that wild, the power of our dreams? Just as wild as those delicious juicy red berries in that dark corner of your perfect little yard.
If we could have stayed in that place, that warm ethereal place where it’s only you and me, and your breath on my back and your hand on my hip and our heartbeats the only sound disturbing our comforting stillness, if only. If only that were the case, then there would be no story to be told.
If we could live on the brink of passionate happiness that we know is present but don’t rush to act upon, don’t ruin with speed, then our story would be boring, baby.
Our audience wouldn’t be too thrilled with our beautifully mundane and excruciatingly easy love story, would they?
The happiness we saw on the horizon was too true, too good, too beautiful for this world, my love.
So for now we have the new memories, the exciting daydreams, and the thought of that place, our bliss, to get us through these dark days.