Dream Beings

Occasionally, I dream things before they happen. Prophesy? Or just good old fashion intuition? At other times, I am haunted continuously by the same images, pestered until I take them into consideration and realize their root.

When I awoke, the sky was its usual grey. For the fourth time in two weeks, I spent the night dreaming about the same scenario. The last time I failed to adhere to the blatant message of a recurring nightmare, i suffered through five long months of debilitating doubt. I wrote my first book in those months, but I also spent many days staring tearily at a computer screen, many evenings crying myself to sleep on the hardwood floor with an empty bottle and a blank canvas.

The first three times, I was certain the message was about the object of my dream. I felt compelled to contact him but had no words to say.

Waking up this morning in an unfamiliar bed (after a night of vampire movies), I was shocked at how dense I can be. The "he" in the dream means nothing; he is simply a catalyst, a metaphor for someone else: me.

Four times, I have been warned by the same man - whose lack of integrity I despise - that I have not changed, I cannot change, I never will change. Each night, I have fallen so familiarly into his arms as he told me lies. His tales, let's be honest, were enormous (taller, in fact, than Typhon); but whatever measure of skepticism I commonly employ around such characters was replaced by absolute naivety. I am him. I am the liar. I have found myself impressed lately by the willingness of others to take me at my word, as if my word were truthful.

If "dreaming ties all mankind together," then I am remotely connected to everyone I encounter; surely they will find their dreams warn them about my dishonesty if I continue at this rate.

One area in which my dreams have failed me is this: I am making, for perhaps the first time in my short life, an honest effort to be who I say I am, to live how I claim I do, to make no excuses and to only speak words that are genuine. I am haunted by the theory that effort alone is not enough; that I am the 34 year old man who lacks the ability to commit.

"Does your Samsonite match my Samsonite?"

My mouth was full of ceviche, but the server was slow to refill my glass of whiskey; so rather than washing down my bite with a drink, I absorbed her every word.

She is beautiful, hilarious, independently wealthy and my absolute hero. She knows I have enlisted her as my mentor, so she has taken it upon herself to reserve a tennis court for us every Wednesday night followed by drinks from either a.) the wine cellar of her beautiful Barbie house on the beach (I call it that, because the majority of the light fixtures in her three story abode are gloriously gaudy crystal chandeliers and her furniture is covered in primarily hot pink ostrich) or b.) one of the various bars on Second Street.

Tonight after a few hours of tennis, we stopped at one particular restaurant which turns into a night club at promptly ten p.m. She was asking me many of the questions she usually asks, but since it has been three weeks, we had a lot to catch up on. She has read the email I received last week from a confused woman warning me to "stay away from her boyfriend of four years," and has heard at least six months worth of my atrocious dating stories; so both her inquiries and instruction are nothing short of delightful. While brushing the hair from her exquisite, ageless face, she rhetorically asked why it is that women such as us put a significant amount of effort into selling ourselves when, honestly, we ought to be shopping a bit harder.

Two strong drinks in, she launched into the tale of her most recent four-year relationship and explained why the ten percent he was lacking was much too large of a percentage to settle for. I told her she had balls of steel, but she stated that she hopes I do too. "The things we forget to ask about in the beginning," she warned, "are often the things we add to our list in the end."

I had told her about my sister's list, so she had brought up her own; and I could be mistaken but there was most likely moisture in her eyes as she reiterated the importance of knowing who I am and following through on those beliefs. Towards the end of our discussion, I casually brought up my most recent interest about which she was more apprehensive than excited. "What is his Achilles heel?" she asked. I did not know.

As the dining room cleared out and the bar flooded with college students grinding to Lil Wayne at ear-piercing levels, she carried on about the importance of recognizing opportunities that are better off avoided. Every three minutes, the volume through the speakers increased, but the less of our conversation I found coherent, the more I was engaged in the way her lips insightfully formed words and the subtle hope she continually gave me that who I am is enough and I have a life much like hers to look forward to in the future.

During our weekly meetings, we light-heartedly trade stories of courtship which always end in discussions about what actually matters in life while highlighting the moments that brought us to these conclusions. The fact that she is nearly the age of my mother is only now occurring as I write this; though her life is much more sophisticated and complete than mine, our stories parallel frequently in a way that continually reminds me the universe has brought us together for many distinct reasons.

Toward the end of the night, the conversation returned to a serious tone and she warned that dating, though fun, is exhausting, time consuming and often unnecessary. She reminded me of how much time I've invested in others over myself and told me it is in my best interest to be cautious, inquisitive and slow to reveal.

She said it is better to talk a bit less; to which I agreed.

She told me I should ask unexpected questions, and answer less of his.

She said that time and distance are on my side, which I had not really considered before.

Then she told me that discretion is key to knowing if something that seems ideal is actually perfect for me.

"The question," she remarked, "is not whether or not you have baggage, because we all do. The real question," she continued, "is whether or not the two of you have matching luggage."