m e l i s s i m a.

DreamGirl.»

I don’t think I’ve ever dreamt so vividly… so consistently, as I did this past summer. There was something about it… made me feel alive, even during my sleep.

Those days are hazed now… resurfacing in my memory sporadically, laced with the discomfort of nostalgia. And my dreams have become rare too. Almost as rare as you.

Only once in a while, do you resurface. The two of you… together.

Two nights ago, I dreamt of finding $130 on the street: I kept $60, gave a stranger $70.

Last night, I dreamt of military tanks, airplanes, business cards, and dinner. 

But the book on my nightstand says I’m going to be okay.

That “to dream of finding money suggests small worries but large happiness. Changes will follow.” That dreaming of military tanks means, “you will find peace of mind around a problem that has been bothering you for some time.” That airplanes symbolize “flying to loftier places.” That business cards foresee “introductions to people who will be beneficial to your finances.” And that dinner means, “you will enjoy the hospitality of those who are able to extend many pleasant courtesies to you.”

Life can be so obscure sometimes. And teasing.

It’s been two days, and two nights.

Wonder if I’m still your DreamGirl.

No Bounds.»

Sometimes it’s impossible to distinguish reality from reverie. Sometimes our mind cannot fathom truth from imagination. But still, there exist those exceptional cases; those cases where there are no bounds, and the two mesh.

Only then do we find ourselves wandering in our dreams… wide awake. -M 

You’ve Got Mail.»

To: NY152

From: Shopgirl 

“Dear Friend,

I like to start my notes to you as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend that we’re the oldest and dearest friends, as opposed to what we actually are; people who don’t know each other’s names, and met in a Char Room where we both claimed we’d never been before.

“What will NY152 say today?” I wonder. I turn on my computer, I wait impatiently as it connects, I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You’ve got mail.

I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York. Just the beat of my own heart.

I have mail.

From you.”

I’m sure I’ve blogged about this before; knowing myself and my love for You’ve Got Mail, the matter wouldn’t surprise me. This is one of my absolute favorite movie scenes of all times. Call it corny (because it is), call it unrealistic (perhaps), or call it silly…I think it’s precious. 

Thirsty…Not Just Thursdays.»

It’s only natural to worry when a neighbor doesn’t call for a few days…when the mail starts to pile up, and the car’s parked on the same side of the driveway.

When dust accumulates in the corners of this blog, however, it actually means (in the most clichè of terms), that “life is good.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

I’m living It in the form of a weary dream these days (“Life,” kid). The air feels stickier against my skin, my energy is significantly subdued, and the streets are more deserted than their usual (or busier, rather, and more populated by the ghosts that linger…I can’t decide). That’s what the New South is like, at least this time around.

BLACK-and scribbles of color entertain my eyes.

I feel like I’ve been here before, seen these familiar faces, tasted this exact flavour…but I haven’t. Conclusion: distant, faded, deceiving memories. But that would be too easy; to say it were all strange and foreign to me. (That part’s not all true anyway, and we know it.) There are some photographs…

Frustration, and I’m slightly bitter.

I toss once, turn twice. My dream swirls and the details twist.

I have been here before, I know these people, and damn straight, these are kiwis in my mouth. It just feels different; wearier than usual. And I’m thirsty. New words roll off my tongue (no more I love you’s), but I keep the new vocabulary concealed. It’s all recycled with a new kick.

Guess that’s what happens when the world’s spinning fast, and you’re spinning (well…) with it: you start to S W I R L, and you hit the ground running. My thirst these days is the kind that isn’t exactly quenchable; the thirst that nestles itself on your taste buds and tickles to no end; a thirst for novelty.

Tonight, I’m safe in someone else’s arms…the embrace of that stranger whom I haven’t hugged in a long while, but who welcomes me just the same, every time I need love and the reassurance that I haven’t lost sight of M e l i s s i m a. It’s my writing that brings me home.

My safe haven, once classifiable as the bosom of the south, is now but a pile of ash. But don’t you for a second think it’s burnt and dead. It’s what’s most ready to make fertile the new life that comes with what’s around the corner.

Autumn.

Dream Writer.»

The most beautiful of minds are those of writers; of the men and women whose pens drip passion on paper. The placing of words in a sentence, the way each letter of the alphabet rings music from the mouth; language in general is a craft I’m fond of. There isn’t anything more graceful, more naked, more real…

This man was sitting on the steps of a bookshop in Largo della Torre Argentina, Rome. The hair atop his head; a cobweb of spiraled thoughts. Pen in hand, a writer always records the most important of ideas, emotions, and memories.

He set off for his dreams well prepared; pen and paper at the ready. | Some people just make me melt.