To have been dreamt

by Christos Polydorou

Once upon a time the most impossible thing happened to me. After I have discussed this with others we all agreed that the most impossible thing, although impossible, does happen to each and every one of us, but once in a lifetime. No, I did not win the lottery. Nor did my obscure literary genius get discovered by one of the five major publishing houses in the world. Neither did I somehow get myself in a lab where there was an accident which turned me into a supervillain, giving me the lifelong opportunity to meet Superman. Nor did I get to walk into Jorge Luis Borges’ circular library in Argentina, although this might be less of an esoteric literary reference than a microcosm of the universe, like the mandala. But how could we possibly begin to epistemologically and empirically reject that the universe of floating constellations of which we dream, does not dream of us? And it is this here paradox, which brings me to the most impossible thing happening to me. Someone fell in love with me, and they began dreaming of me. Although he was quite beautiful within his Anglo Saxon lineage, he was quite young, and the power play between us fell like uneven scaffolding. It was a lose lose situation, so I made myself seem cold, obtuse, unavailable, to him. But every chance he got he would latch onto my shin and hump it until I shook him off. I am at a…foretelling crossroads, in my life. For the first time in my life, narcissism nor a mass media brainwashed obsession with eternal youth will not allow me to make the same mistake last year, when I fell in love with someone younger than me, and expected love to flourish, and got melodramatically depressed, melodramatically because a part of me knew it was time to stop horsing around, and take myself, and my heart, and my romantic well being, as seriously as I took my art. Finally, in this dream this young man has been having of me recently, a recurrent dream, of course, I am getting out of bed and I am naked, and I am putting on a hooded red robe, I am opening the window, and I am flying out towards the heavens. When I received his email last night telling me about this, I was a little alarmed, because as a rule I rarely wear red, because it is such a draining colour to wear. In his mind, I had been incarnating something inside of him that needed incarnation, and personification. I am not sure what, but it still seems strange to me. To have been dreamt.

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