Ivy

Last night, I dreamt that you stayed. The sky looked bluer and the air was pure, moving soundlessly through the leaves and ruffling its weakness. You were by my side, and I was by yours; our hands drifting below our waists. The sun nearly setting, we realized it was time to go home. Yellow turned into purple which became pink and bled into a midnight blue. By that time, we were on the train. 

    I was facing you, and your eyes met mine. I looked down at my shoes, and you kept your gaze. Those brown eyes boring into the middle of my parted hair, as I raised my head and met you again. I dropped you off at your doorstep and said goodbye. 

    I walked down that street with a smile on my face, passing by our favourite coffee shop. I got on the train and sat in the corner, looking out at the tired city. 

    Silhouettes of strangers, some who were by themselves, and others who were not. I made up a story for each of them. Dean Stuart, 37-years old, divorced at 32 and works at the bank across the city mall. April and Josh, two 24-year olds fresh off their college graduation, walking the September streets in search of a place to sit and talk. Portia, 57-years old, wearing an olive green hunting jacket and a tan scarf; strolling down the block all by her lonesome, always with her head down. 

    Sometimes, she'd bump into someone. And they'd apologize. Portia glances to her side every now and then, as if someone were walking with her. But no one was, not to me at least. Finally, I reached my stop. And I took the bus home. The autumn wind accompanied me and the chill, woke me. Literally. 

    I wake up and realize that I had been dreaming. Frustrated but not surprised, I smile. A sad one, reminiscent of a child who misplaces his favourite novel and has come to accept that it is gone. 

    In a few weeks, it'll come up. His mother, raising it above her head and waving it around as if it were some special treasure, which it is to the boy. He'd run towards her with glee and pick it from her outstretched fingers, look down at its cover hard and clear, and breathe a sigh of relief. I wake up with this expectation but my mother is growing old. She is not responsible for the things I lose. Still, I love her all the same. She is comforting and present and sometimes that is all you need and more. 

    Today, I'll raise myself up from under the covers, and begin again. I eat breakfast and begin my schoolwork, finishing some of it but not all. The remnants of last night's dream slowly fading into the nothingness of memory. Eventually, as I am washing the dishes or reading my book, I forget about it completely. Try as hard as I might to recall it, there is no use. It sinks to the depths of myself and does not resurface. The water returns to stillness and I carry on. 

    Lately, I've realized that everything I do in my life is a way of letting go. Bit by bit, until I feel a little bit lighter than I did yesterday. The heavy things becoming just things. The burdens, an explanation for the growth that I experience through each difficult night and slow morning. 

    I live with this abounding desire to free myself of all the things that weigh me down. A cruel dream, a confusing feeling for someone or something. I write these out and hope to find myself floating easier on the sea of my mind. Eventually, I begin to grow tired of writing eloquently and perceived beauty, so I give myself a break. 

    Recently, I've been feeling a bit insecure. Unsure about my appearance, my driving skills, my dreams, my writing, my relationships with others, my relationship with myself. I've tried to tackle it by playing video games and actually doing my assignments but this feeling of never being enough for anything seems to find its way back all the same. 

    I've always thought of myself as a relaxed kind of guy, never worrying too much about one thing, much less more. I guess it's been my own way of avoiding my responsibilities and desires. An excuse to justify the way that I feel. But how can someone dig a hole for themselves and complain about their place in it?         So, I'm going to care for all of the things that I want to care about; even the ones that need convincing. Things like writing freely and reading often, fun activities that are actually worth my time and attention. Infinitely better than scrolling endlessly on social media and rewatching the same videos, listening to the same songs. I'm going to love the life that I have been given because there is no other choice. 

    "To whom much is given, much is required." So I am going to give more than I have received and live with the results. I've always felt better when I give anyways. 

    This turned from a story into a massive rant so I apologize. Hopefully, I was able to entertain you with my chaos, heartache, and an ever-expanding attempt to figure it all out. Have a wonderful night, and sleep well, you beautiful, magnificent, timeless person. 

Spike Jonze, Her, 2013