Love Letter to A Dreamer.

Dear Diary #313 Love Letter to a Dreamer.

“Don’t make dreams your master,” they say, but I say do, as there are many worse things that you can become a slave to. Though their direction is fickle like the British weather and can be as clear as fog or convoluted like the Times crossword, they are your own babies to love and to hold, (but not to control), and just maybe they will grow into the adult that you wanted to be? It is only when I have my eyes closed that with the keenest clarity, I see where I want to go and who I want to be, and it is nothing like the place I dwell, nor the man I am today.

Once, I dreamt that I fell in love. That I’d left my obsessions hidden under the bed; hung my self loathing at the back of the wardrobe with my butterfly collection and those love letters never sent, and let myself fall, just fall…but nothing lasts forever with the exception to have the capacity to dream and dream on…

Margot says I dream too much but maybe she doesn’t dream enough? Margot has every right to believe this; I’ve known her since childhood and I know where she comes from, but I don’t know where she’s going. She was my first kiss, (a peck on the cheek aged six), my first sticky, teenage fumblings, (but she showed me the way), and my first and last heartache, (which is ongoing). I don’t know, the woman is an enigma and always has been, where as I’ve always been quite simple, though again, much like dreams, my meanings nor intentions are not always too transparent. What does haunt me is that maybe I’m guilty of dreaming the dreams of fellow dreamers, encouraging them but neglecting my own, and Margot knows this only too well and overtly hates me for it.

It is because of Margot that I do dream, even if she doesn’t. I do have plenty for the both of us I suppose, and I’m a willing, submissive slave to such ephemera.