Another story written for a story. Enjoy:
It’s that moment before sleep. The moment when I’ve come as close to giving up on all my mindful distractions as I can and realize that this may be the best chance I have at achieving sleep. But without fail, my voice begins its dialogue.
I think of it as pre-dreaming. The dreaming I can control. I decide the subject matter and I have the ability to act it all out in my head. It is a play of my would-be life. If I’m fretting about family, I speak the unwanted conversation internally. If I’m arguing with friends, I attempt to solve the conflict in a way that my waking mind would never allow; so full of normal emotions and the perfect thing to say.
But usually, most frequently, my pre-dreams take the form of my yearnings for love, or that thing people refer to as love. Despite my sometimes feminist tendencies, despite my deep desire to find life’s meaning, my conscious mind always returns to love. I plan out conversations I will never utter, I force men into the role of romantic lover that they will never be able to live up to. Into a role I would cower from with embarrassment and fear. But most often, my notions of these girly and sentimental conversations turn into the inevitable arguments that follow everything that succeeds love. I imagine him leaving, I imagine him finally and fully understanding the deep and permanent breaks in my diseased mind and giving up once and for all. This outcome never surprises me. Even though I do sometimes cry for him to return, I never question why he had to go. After all, it was me who made him leave. I wouldn’t have made it as long as he did. I would have left myself long ago.
Then after the exhaustion of this made up yet realistic pre-dream, my body sometimes allows the real thing. Real dreams, the ones I can’t control. It is then that my body sighs in relief as I finally let go.