Notes From The Books I'll Never Write. Part 1: Lethargy

I had dreams about you years before I met you. Not the aspirational, hopeful kind - I mean nighttime, sleeping dreams.
I was young, perhaps in my second last year of high school, and still years away from feeling the whiplash of first love, the untold depths of its fissures.

Four nights in a row I slipped into the vividness of those dreams. The first night, we were at a beach - or perhaps a desert - sitting side by side on a steep, scorched orange dune. The air was heavy and laced with exotic, unspoken thoughts. The thrill in my bones a religious experience.

The dream was like a still from a movie; we just sat, untouching, side by side. It was the rare sensation of being quite still and yet unmistakably humming with energy. On waking - it still dark outside my room - I remember catching the distinct sensation of being a newborn baby, so recently an inhabitant of that other world, and still so intimate with its secrets.