Sunday, March 30, 2008

A dream

I rarely dreamed about J, even when we were talking everyday. It's strange that I should dream about him now, now that I haven't heard from him in months. Sure, I still think about him more or less everyday, as I still think about most people who were once important to me sporadically. But it has reached the level of, "Hmmm... I wonder how he is. I sure hope he's as okay as I am."

This part of getting over--when you can think of him with genuine, sincere concern minus the twinge of missing him--makes me a little sad because it puts him at the same level as everyone I care about, only slightly less than those I still spend time with. The idea that he's no longer special, or that special, it makes you wonder where all those strong feelings went, and makes you less trustful with the mad, passionate feelings that you equate with love.

But enough about love, for now--I want to write about the dream.

In Thailand, when we were exploring the ancient kingdom of Ayutthaya, Sherwil and Emily climbed up a temple, and I, withering from the heat, opted out and chatted with our driver and guide, Watson, instead. One thing I noticed about the temple ruins was that the broken pieces of statues of Buddha were still reverently kept in a pile. Some of them looked more like smooth rocks than anything.

I asked Watson if there were people who picked up some pieces for souvenirs. Security was lax, so anybody could do this easily. In his broken English, he tried his very best to tell me about one tourist who did. Apparently, back home, this guy kept dreaming of a voice telling him to bring the rock back, and it got so that he did fly back to Thailand to return the piece.

I've been thinking a lot about dreams--and having a lot of vivid ones--since then. I have another story about a dream, this time about my father (it was his death anniversary last March 25), but I'll write about that next time. First, the dream about J.

A few nights ago, I had one of my rare vivid dreams. In it, I accidentally ran into J while traveling. He was with his young wife, who seemed like a nice Eurasian woman. They had just gotten married. I was the same age as I am now; he was older. In fact, he looked like the stereotypical retiree traveling the world.

He was a bit overweight and he looked sick. I talked to his wife, and she said they'd met on a bus, and fell for each other almost instantly. She was in her late twenties, and I had the impression it wasn't love just yet, but that she did care for him, and I found myself hoping it would last. He was sick, and he needed regular medicine, and she took care of this very well.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to give him the scolding I never got to give. I felt the need to demand for his apology--for hurting me, for betraying me, for promises unfulfilled, for his general bad behavior... So I went up to him (and at this point, I think I was naked--and we were in a public place too!) and started shooting off my mouth.

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, however, they sort of dropped, heavy with the ages and ages since they were still relevant. I tried to talk as if everything still mattered, but the more words came out, the more... unnecessary they seemed. Worse, the old man J looked at me with blank eyes first, as if he remembered me enough to know there was something to remember, but he couldn't seem to bring it to memory. At that point, we were people who had a past--and just that.

Everything felt futile, and it was this futility that made me let it go and think, why hold on to things you can not even make a single point about? It was liberating, sad, and, most of all, blank.

I woke up feeling sentimental, yet light. Could it have been my subconscious bidding bye-bye?