i wonder if everyone carries this feeling with them their whole lives; i wonder if i'll ever have the means necessary to communicate. not to communicate the necessary, that's for words, pictures, and charades. it's the aching individuality that escapes language. the need to realize in each other those foetal emotions and stillborn ideas that were misplaced among my lessons in school. the fancies that coast in between (and throw together) those of they who came before us (and are remembered today). new-, half-, and full-bloom notions which we drop mid-sentence in conversation with people we just might fall in love with. are they new ideas? no, and yes. no, we might be able to sort the particulars out as derivative. yes, because the same idea, feeling, has never struck you as it does then, and now, and not in the present-time, and not in the same mood, and not to this love.
sabina is a much more beautiful child than i was, but we both dream awake, out-of-time, not past-time, or future-time, just displaced exactly from everyone else. you don't forget where you are, or what's happening, or what you're doing. you travel simultaneously among planes of thoughts until a beacon calls you home. I looked over at Sabina where she lay and told her silently that it's okay, and the words I always wanted to hear as a child, the ones we all want to hear all-days, the ones we wish were true and temporarily are when we promise them. i love you, close your eyes, i understand, i promise you i'll be here when you wake up, i'll be here when you open your eyes, i'll be there with you (not talking, but quietly, always there).
when i'm done dreaming today or all-days i hope everything is still there.
