I dream of you. You and I inhabit gardens I've never seen and night-dark streets crowded with the nameless and faceless. But it's always the same garden and familiar streets.
Crowds frighten me now as they never have before. I fear being jostled. I fear being body-slammed. I fear losing my balance. I fear damage. I sit, finally, exhausted and in pain. The exhaustion is part of the dream; the pain is real.
You always find me. You have some amazing radar, some keen sixth sense that sends you where I am. We are bound by some otherworldly thread, and as you never fail to locate me, I hear you at odd times when you are nowhere near. I can't explain it and I've never tried. We both seem to accept it as part of the logic of whatever relationship it is that we share, of the strange and happy circumstances that threw us together, of that moment of recognition years ago where it all began.
You are willing me to see you, to look past the milling masses between us and to acknowledge you there. I want to--oh, you will never know how much I want to--but the crowd is insurmountable, and simple fear keeps me pinned to the ground. Fear and doubt. I am so sure that I am right; I am equally sure that I am so wrong.
I feel rather than see the slump of your shoulders; your disappointment in me manifests itself in the language of your body.
"Here I am!" my heart cries out. "I am here."
But you know where I am. And while you wait for me, you also choose not to move through the throng in the street dimly lit with old-fashioned lamps. We are chess pieces in our own game, locked in stalemate, each with compelling reasons to move forward and to hold back. I wonder if fear and doubt binds you as much as they do me.
Today, I worked in the garden, setting out new plants: flowers that are beautiful and herald spring; herbs for the food that I make. The sun was hot, and I washed pots and filled them; raked last autumn's leaves out of beds; and methodically set plants to grow alongside the seeds I planted. I watched the moon rise in the east as I worked, while the sun moved toward the horizon in the west.
I thought of you, of the seeds we've sown, of what may yet grow.
Above me, the sky turned to blue velvet and the stars sparkled in sharp relief.
Go listen to some music: "The Lightning Strike" from the album A Hundred Million Suns by Snow Patrol.