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A Quick Dream/Story Entry
Nov. 7th, 2010 04:13 pmOne step behind, but I wanted to log this. It was a relationship dream: the first in years. This one had the quirks of a French film.
The main character is running from the authorities through a cramped alley that shadows him against a bright street light. It has to do with gang activity, I remember that much, although it was a wrongful accusation, something silly like that. It's a misdemeanor, not unlike someone wrongfully accusing him for stealing fruit. He wonders how life could treat him like this as he runs when it said his horoscope would be fortunate.
He hides into a door that goes into what is a white-walled gallery: a small museum of sorts of abstract arts in oils and acrylics against the clean egg white shellac. It is kind of dark: only the sunlight is allowed in, creating some shadows that offer harsh angles against the wall. As he walks along, he steps into a room where a woman looks at a painting and, as he looks at the abstracted image, she starts talking to him, telling him her feelings about the art and the history of its creator. The protagonist feels like she talks too much, but he can not help but find it mesmerizing the way she continues to talk, and the danger of being caught only makes him want to stay more.
And that is when he realizes that she has this pretty face, not a greco-roman face, sure, but her hair is a white-yellow in a tussled balance and her eyes seem almost like a raccoon's black-iris stare, but her smile is mesmerizing despite the imperfect teeth and it compels him to talk to her. They talk about art as they walk and he soon realizes that he is in love and has to admit this to her like a revelation found in those paintings. There is surprise in her face, but comfort too, as there is a slight reluctance in her voice as she admits that it was the sight of his face that made her speak and what made her hope that he too would find something amazing in her too. It is also something of a surprise, for he considered himself nothing special, a man with a slight hooked nose, a receding hairline, and a face that looked like it began to weather with the coming of middle age.
They hold hands, and although I see them having dinner with each other under a gold-lit cafe and laugh to each other, they will go to a bedroom together with as much platonic happiness as lust.
At this point, I look away. I was staring at a series, of sorts: some sort of mini-series of stories, and while I am glad things could resolve so easily, I feel even happier to notice that I have watched only volume 1, meaning that their relationship was something to continue with each other.
I wish I could tell more, only that about that time I woke up.
The main character is running from the authorities through a cramped alley that shadows him against a bright street light. It has to do with gang activity, I remember that much, although it was a wrongful accusation, something silly like that. It's a misdemeanor, not unlike someone wrongfully accusing him for stealing fruit. He wonders how life could treat him like this as he runs when it said his horoscope would be fortunate.
He hides into a door that goes into what is a white-walled gallery: a small museum of sorts of abstract arts in oils and acrylics against the clean egg white shellac. It is kind of dark: only the sunlight is allowed in, creating some shadows that offer harsh angles against the wall. As he walks along, he steps into a room where a woman looks at a painting and, as he looks at the abstracted image, she starts talking to him, telling him her feelings about the art and the history of its creator. The protagonist feels like she talks too much, but he can not help but find it mesmerizing the way she continues to talk, and the danger of being caught only makes him want to stay more.
And that is when he realizes that she has this pretty face, not a greco-roman face, sure, but her hair is a white-yellow in a tussled balance and her eyes seem almost like a raccoon's black-iris stare, but her smile is mesmerizing despite the imperfect teeth and it compels him to talk to her. They talk about art as they walk and he soon realizes that he is in love and has to admit this to her like a revelation found in those paintings. There is surprise in her face, but comfort too, as there is a slight reluctance in her voice as she admits that it was the sight of his face that made her speak and what made her hope that he too would find something amazing in her too. It is also something of a surprise, for he considered himself nothing special, a man with a slight hooked nose, a receding hairline, and a face that looked like it began to weather with the coming of middle age.
They hold hands, and although I see them having dinner with each other under a gold-lit cafe and laugh to each other, they will go to a bedroom together with as much platonic happiness as lust.
At this point, I look away. I was staring at a series, of sorts: some sort of mini-series of stories, and while I am glad things could resolve so easily, I feel even happier to notice that I have watched only volume 1, meaning that their relationship was something to continue with each other.
I wish I could tell more, only that about that time I woke up.
