and i wait because someone comes through the doorway and they casually walk to the matching chair in front of me. These people who come to me, are everyone in my life, recent and old. People I have met just the day before and friends from middle school. I listen as they speak, they speak to me with honesty and injected with truth serum. They confess to me everything there ever was between us, lies, love, and all else unsaid. And not for a minute to I feel any sort of emotion besides relief. It is as if nothing else matters, but listening, being intwind in that very moment hearing the pronounciation of every vowel, of how their tongue rolls off their teeth. and when he or she is finished they close their statements, and simply get up and walk away, exiting the oppisite side they walked onto, and another enters.
But these visits are not sad and sorrowful. These people are exactly how i remember them at the apex of our friendship. For example, a current friend of mine came to me last night and walked over with heavy feet, plopped himself in the chair with a big grin on his face and leaned forward to give me knuckles. He had that goofy smile on his face and he started telling me silly stories and throwing old jokes at me. Before he left, he hugged me and made a comment about visiting me at school.
another example is an old friend from high school who i considered a very good friend at some time. She tells me everything all over again, full of sorries and pleading how she misses our friendship. She says its all her fault, she hands me letters we wrote to eachother in class. She hands me back things I gave her. and she leaves upset and shooken up.
perhaps the most strange one is an old crush who comes to me, in that cute way he always did. and he sits on the chair and clears his throat and hands me something he had already gave me a long time ago. He tells me all the things he misses about us, and all the fun things we did. He tells me someday he'll come back to me but he can't right now. He says sorry too. He says everything he ever told me was honest, and still is. But he just can' right now. He gets up to leave and calls me by a nickname.
But everyone comes to me, so vivid and clear, I can see the sparkle in their eyes, the uneven skin tone on their faces, i know what clothes they were wearing right down to the brand. I study their body language and really listen to them. I chime in and respond when appropriate. But I mostly listen. oh, and everyone comes to me. It is as if I am dying and I am the only one who does not know. It is as if everyone wants to tell me they love me, or they care, or that they are sorry. It is really as if I am dying, or perhaps already dead and I am hearing everyone talk to me at my grave, as my casket, in their rooms in prayer.
this is the third time this has happened. Different people show up each time, other more important people come everytime to finish talking. Everyone who comes to me are friends, no family. It is the strangest of dreams.
I wake up calm and collective, like everything is nothing and I am starting fresh. But than I remember its just a dream, wishful thinking, in a bright white evenly sideded room.
i chose salvador dali, god help you if you don't know who he is. Spanish surrealist painter, often compared to Piccaso. I chose him because A LOT of his work has to do with dreaming. And obviously I need no further explination on the coorelation between the art today and my entry.
possibly my fave out of these four.. at least
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