Melody Rhoades - My Dream

My dream... I keep writing that down like it’s a title, like it’s simple, like it’s a thing. My dream... As if I could put it in a jar... My dream is not being rescued. My dream is not a prince. My dream is not someone coming back with flowers and empty apologies. My dream is warmer than that. More embarrassing than that. My dream is a hand finding mine without making a prison of it. My dream is a dangerous little animal. I keep telling it to quit. It keeps finding me deep in denial. I keep pretending I could live without it. It keeps gnawing like it’s fighting for survival. My dream is somebody knowing how I take my coffee and still asking, just to hear my voice in the morning. My dream is being alone without being abandoned. My dream is being loved without being taken for granted. And I hate that I need that. I hate that after all this work, all this rebuilding, I still want someone to turn their head when I walk into a room. I still want to be witnessed. There. I said it. My dream is not only mine. Maybe that is what scares me. Because the dreams that belong only to me are easy to protect. The book I might write. The city I might visit. The song I might scream in the car when nobody can hear it. The red coat I almost buy every winter. The tiny balcony with basil and lavender. My dream is a dangerous little animal. It bites the hand that tries to calm it. It drags its muddy feet across my daily spiral. I call it harmless, just to disarm it. Until it shows its teeth at my self-denial. Those dreams are mine. I can feed them crumbs. I can hide them deep in diaries. But the dream of closeness? That one is dangerous. That one knows where to hurt. My dream sits across from me sometimes and looks at me with a searching stare. And work does not care. The calendar does not care. The rent, the tax letter, the shopping, the colleague asking if I have five minutes when I absolutely do not have five minutes. They all stand around my little dreams with clipboards. They all say: later. My dream hates that word. Later is where dreams go to become sadness. Later is where wild thoughts learn good manners. Later is where I have buried so many versions of myself that sometimes I wonder if the ground under me is made of their quiet remains. My dream is still there. I think. That is the part I do not say out loud. I am afraid my dream is getting quieter. I am afraid that one day I will wake up and not feel anything missing. Not because I am whole. Because the wanting finally gave up. And what am I, if I stop wanting? Some days my dream is clean sheets. Some days my dream is not checking my phone. Some days my dream is a message that does not make my stomach tighten. Some days my dream is laughing without checking if I mean it. Some days my dream is simply this: to still be capable of dreaming. My dream is a dangerous little animal. It scratches at the door when I am trying to sleep. It chews through the neat little ropes of my schedule. And maybe I should be annoyed. But honestly? I am relieved. Because if it is still making noise, then it is still alive in there. My dream is not done with me. Maybe dreams are the parts of us that refuse to become efficient. My dream is to wake up one morning and not feel late for my own life. My dream is to be held without being kept. My dream is to be free without being alone. My dream is to keep dreaming, even when the world asks me to be useful instead. And tonight... that is enough...