The Dream

Before the shimmer of colour dissolves into images & the senses synchronise, before objects gain permanence & noise becomes language, as instinct urges the first scream of protest, the craving begins:

to touch & to be touched.

A dream proceeds through the senses, through sadness, through elation, through bitter-sweet isolation, & the aleatory revelation when first we notice the symmetry between our veins & those of the leaves:

the dream that we can reach out to touch not just the surface but the ineffable essence.

Melancholia is our mourning for, & fucking our delirious affirmation of, this dream; speech is our abstract acceptance that the dream is impossible, & your smile is the only reason I sometimes still believe it isn’t,

because there are more ways than one to touch & to be touched…