I dream of things rooted in my heart...
Aug. 20th, 2006 08:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zalenaI dreamt my family was staying with Secret Lover's family. I knew that eventually I would run into him, and dreaded seeing him again. I worried that when I saw him I would try to kill him. Our families were unaware of the extent of our involvement.
Instead, when the inevitable occurred, I was surprised to find there was still love and longing. An anguished attraction was still rooted in my heart.
He kept returning things to me. Tiny personal effects: nail clippers, time pieces, pocket knifes. After the third or fourth pocket knife I finally said, "This isn't mine."
"Of course it is, don't you remember? You gave it to me for safe-keeping," he said.
I got out the box where I'd kept all the things he'd returned (none of which I'd recognized) and showed it to him. "How many knifes can a girl have?" I asked.
Waking, the feelings linger. It's like the tree in front of my house that refuses to die. Cutting it down, treating it with tars and poisons, still it keeps growing back. Just because we've cut off whatever grew in our hearts doesn't mean the roots don't remain.
I was struck by the image of having to dig up an oak with a pocket knife. How many trees in the forest have been felled whose roots still survive? Is it better to cut off a love affair in full flower, or to let that love wither and die?
The worst part is that last night I knew I would dream. I didn't know what it would be about, but I stayed up later and later trying to avoid the inevitable.
Instead, when the inevitable occurred, I was surprised to find there was still love and longing. An anguished attraction was still rooted in my heart.
He kept returning things to me. Tiny personal effects: nail clippers, time pieces, pocket knifes. After the third or fourth pocket knife I finally said, "This isn't mine."
"Of course it is, don't you remember? You gave it to me for safe-keeping," he said.
I got out the box where I'd kept all the things he'd returned (none of which I'd recognized) and showed it to him. "How many knifes can a girl have?" I asked.
Waking, the feelings linger. It's like the tree in front of my house that refuses to die. Cutting it down, treating it with tars and poisons, still it keeps growing back. Just because we've cut off whatever grew in our hearts doesn't mean the roots don't remain.
I was struck by the image of having to dig up an oak with a pocket knife. How many trees in the forest have been felled whose roots still survive? Is it better to cut off a love affair in full flower, or to let that love wither and die?
The worst part is that last night I knew I would dream. I didn't know what it would be about, but I stayed up later and later trying to avoid the inevitable.
