Dreams are strange things.

Sometimes we remember them. Sometimes we don't. And sometimes we think we remember something that seemed like a dream.

I remembered something yesterday which seemed familiar, and eventually, I figured it had to be a dream I had quite recently.


I only vaguely remember the earlier part of the dream; something about someone giving me the most pretty white dress I've ever seen-- and it's only the later part which becomes more vivid. Someone else tells me, "Oh, but you need shoes to go with that."

And she hands me two large paper bags, each with a pair of shoes in them.

White paper bags with white, high-heeled sandals with gold trim in them. And all the white is just so blinding that I can hardly see the shoes.

"There, now you're all ready."

To go where? And I'm reminded oddly of Cinderella.



Nicholas told some of the archery people a few weeks ago about a dream that he claims he had. He said he dreamt that one day he saw someone and I holding hands.

And two nights later, I had a dream about us surprising him by letting him see us do just that.



There's a woman in a black dress, standing before a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. She looks out over the dark of an urban cityscape, all dots of flickering lights from this far up and not a sign of human life anywhere--
Watching the reflection of her own eyes--
Wondering why they're so dispassionate, detached.
She knows she's only living on borrowed time and light:
Waiting for just the right moment, always waiting for sometime, for someone, waiting for forever.
Just as she's waiting for someone to walk through that door.
And as if on cue, he's there.
A strange man with no face.
He's there to hug her fears away, a comfortably-firm embrace with warm hands that slide across her waist and her stomach, whispering over the fabric of the dress she's wearing; lay a kiss to the join where neck meets shoulder--
And it burns because she knows it will bruise later.
And he speaks soothing words, of watching sunrises from the sheltered safety of a bedroom's windowpane, of tomorrow, and ever after.
Her eyes don't even flicker, but her heart leaps-- it believes anything.
"Come with me."
And she can't tell if he's asking, pleading or demanding.
She turns as he takes her hand--
Wonders if she should just take what he's offering, even if it might not last--
Wonders if she should just learn to let go.
And she lets her gloves slip off in his grasp as he walks out the door.


Dreams. Maybe all we need is to read between the lines.