Private.

[nola_cyclops]

Samuel Scott's Private E-Journal.
Entry 2.

I don't dream very much, or at least, I don't usually remember my dreams. But I remember last night's dream so well that I'm alarmed by how much I've retained. What in the brain dictates the memory of dreams? Or is this part of the wonder of the subconscious – the way that it bubbles over into images or metaphors that we see when sleeping to make sense of our lives? I don't know the answer and I wish that I did. I don't like not knowing the why of things.

But I feel like, when it comes to myself, I never know the why. Only the what, and when, and where. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, the how.

My dream: I am sitting at home in my bedroom. Somehow, there is a piano in it, and I’m playing Rain Drops, from Chopin’s 24 Preludes. I don’t know why. Light is streaming through the window, the very specific light of early morning. There’s a mug of coffee on the stand beside me, next to my phone, which is ringing but on silent. I don’t know who is calling. I don’t answer. I keep playing.

The sound of the shower. It runs for a long time. I know that Oliver is in it, because who else would be showering in our house? (That the answer to this could be ‘someone Oliver has brought home’ is a concept I immediately dismiss, because it upsets me. I don’t want to interrogate that upset).

I don’t notice when the shower shuts off, I’m in the Chopin. I haven’t played in years, which you could tell if you listened to me. It’s tentative and exploratory and not quite right, but I’m trying to play it from memory. Which I would probably not do, not if I could look up the sheet music online. But then, this is a dream, and normal rules don’t apply.

Which soon becomes obvious when the light flooding my room changes shape and something is casting a shadow. Oliver is in the doorway, hair dripping, a towel around his waist, loosely held. I know this without turning around. He says something – or maybe he doesn’t say anything – but I think he says something, and I don’t turn around. Fear? I don’t know why. But I feel electric.

He isn’t obnoxious in this dream, not even once.

He comes up behind me. He kisses my neck, he caresses me and the piano keys in equal measure. His towel falls away (if I’m being honest, I make sure the towel falls away). I have turned around; he looks at me like he likes me. Which, of course he does, because it’s a dream, and reality bends to fit the dream.

I pull him toward me and we kiss and I feel happy, fireworks happy –

And I wake up.

And now I wonder: was it the sexual release I crave enough to dream, or was it that Oliver and I had a good, amicable relationship – that we liked each other?

And now I wonder: Do I have feelings for Oliver? And isn’t that pathetic; I sleep with someone and now I like them. How uncool. How boring. How predictable. How un-Oliver, probably.

But I don’t know the why. I never do.

I am still avoiding him. I don’t know if he knows. Or even notices the difference. But I hate that I’m doing it.

I wish I understood myself. I wish I understood him. I wish I understood anything at all.

I wish I felt like there were clear skies ahead.