Dreaming II

“Hey,” She says, and I can see the smile in her eyes, the light in the depths of a gaze the color of gray green beaches and earth. It is morning, and as we wake up, we kiss, smile, gently trace fingers across shoulders, cheeks and skin in loving motions. There is no worry here, no discomfort, no fear, only love, gentleness, sweetness.

It is pleasantly early when we wake. We feel refreshed, happy, and when we are ready, we rise and make coffee together, craft breakfast and kiss, smile, whisper sweetly and say “my love.” Each day has the joy, ease and possibility of a weekend now, but there is still work to be done, a schedule which just happens to fit us perfectly. Her job is something that she loves doing, something that pays well and gives her all the benefits, structure and paid time off she desires. My job is writing, creating, photographing, and pushing the boundaries of art in whatever ways come to me. Each day she asks me what I’m going to work on next and I have an answer that excites me as I tell her about it. I am never bored, and what I create always sells. Given time, a matter of days or weeks, everything I create rises exponentially in popularity, brings more and more people to my sites, sells so quickly, so readily and easily that it seems almost unbelievable, almost driven by miracle or magic. But it is real, and I find myself grateful for each day that I wake up and know that every ounce of work I do will yield a bountiful harvest before the week is out.

My computer warms up slow, but not too slow, only taking enough time for me to take a long leisurely sip of my coffee and make a few notes to myself about projects I want to immerse myself in. I check my sales, my pageviews and clicks– all increasing like the roll of a snowball in a way that makes me smile, pleasantly surprised, knowing that all my expenses are paid, all my needs and debts already satisfied. I’ll be able to make another big deposit into the savings account this month, put money toward another friend or relative’s education, another cause, another new business or band. Hundreds of thousands of people move across my network of websites every day, soaking in all that I produce, smiling at the pictures, reciting the poetry, the stories, and passing on all that they find to other friends, to massive engines of social networking that expose more and more people to my work. My email box is full of fan mail and contracts, people who want to option pieces of my writing for television or film, people who want to pay me to write forwards and reviews to their books, speak at their conventions, their school rallies, their meetings. The ads on my pages are popular– thousands of people see exactly what they are looking for and click through to pages that delight them, and they remember that my page is where they saw those ads, visit each of my pages again and again. My account grows and grows, becomes so sweet and fat that I never worry, never fear, only smile.

Later, my love and I are singing opera in the shower, a little piece we remember specifically in this moment, something that makes us both laugh as we finish. We laugh as we sing, both forgetting parts here and there, key sequences, picking up the lines that the other blurs through. Time passes as we move from song to song, old favorites, things and bits from movies and games and memory that linger on in our minds and hearts. Holding each other here, enshrined in the cool cascade of water, there is no fear, no inhibition– the outside world no longer exists for us, only a body and soul that blurs vaguely into two. Beyond the work that we do, there is plenty of room to breathe, to be, and to forget everything that is outside of each moment we share together, just us.

That night, as I stare at a half finished page, fingers tapping across well worn keys, I think of her and my thoughts rise above the quiet, ambient strains tumbling from the radio. I pause, smiling, lingering on the rise and fall of mind and smile as my fingers find the knob and silence the radio, leave only the sound of silence, breeze and life to hang softly in the night. I smile at the sound of a pen scratching poetry, the turn of a page, the passion she has for her art, and as I stand and push aside the chair, she whispers lines of something gentler, something that reminds me of rain.

The boards of the house creak beneath my feet as I cross to her, sit silently behind her and wrap my arms around her waist as she reads. The lines of her poetry rise, become stronger and more complex as she leans into me again, back against my chest, head coming to rest on my shoulder. I smile again, gently kiss her hair as she finishes.

“Hey,” She says, curling into me, smiling contentedly. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful.” I smile, and gently move an edge of hair out of her eyes. “Your poetry is as beautiful and lyrical as you are.”

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