sleep

Have you ever woken up suddenly from a very vivid dream and the first thing that came to your mind was, “Frak. I’m alone.”?

Not alone-alone. I mean, in a sense, when you came to consciousness at that moment, you just know that there will be no message waiting on your phone, there was nobody whose call you missed, there was no one who missed you while you slept. And that is just infinitely sad.

I dream really nice dreams lately. Not that they’re dreams of me swimming in a huge pool of money (or chocolate for that matter) but they’re nice because my dreams are quickly becoming more interesting than reality. Sometimes you just hate waking up, because this mediocre life does not make as much sense as your dreams. But those dreams only make sense to you, and an account of them does not really do justice to the sense of homecoming you get when you dream.

Interestingly, I know I sleep too much when I am depressed. There is just a sense of escapism in just sleeping things off, and hoping they’re not there when you wake up. Sleep for me is solace, a refuge from a life I’m increasingly getting too impatient for. I love the feel of my eyes and head after too much sleep; it’s like floating freely, groggy without any drugs, being well-rested but exhausted at the same time kind of trip.

In sleep I get to realize lots of things I never would have entertained while awake. In sleep I freely express my longing for someone to be with, because hell, I am alone. In my sleep I know I miss someone terribly, and it’s wrong to miss him, but I do and that makes me cry in real life. In my sleep he’d be there and though the situation wouldn’t change from here to dreamland, I can see him, even if I don’t remember what he looks like. In reality, he’s just too far away, and the possibility of us meeting is both slim and dangerous. But I miss him. I miss caring.

I miss him because I know I will never love someone like I loved him. from here on out, I would be cautious, I will not be as free. In my dreams I can still pretend that time had stood still, that I wasn’t hurt, that I still don’t know better.

But I do, and that is a curse. Human beings are programmed to learn from their mistakes, and though I wish I hadn’t, I know I can only offer a different kind of love now. Not better, not less, but different. And that different would not be the same. (I know, duh statement. But it’s true.) Worse thing is, I don’t even know how to start loving again. I immerse myself in different kinds of people, looking for someone to see me and love me, but there is no one.  I am alone.

I’m not scared. It’s just sad. I will tread this life without the feeling of someone with me, intimately, but I will tread this life with as much fun as I can. I know that. Being alone is not scary, nor is it boring. It’s just undeniably sad.

I think there is no other word to express the depth of that feeling. Sad. Sadness. Despair is not quite right, because in despair, you would have a certain sense of longing. Sorrow is not quite the word, because in sorrow you would have to had lost something. Sadness is more of a state of being. A cruise on a still still boat with this emotion as the air and water. It swallows you sometimes, other times it hits you hard, like a slap of cold wind and keeps you cold throughout the ride. It is beautiful, but it’s beauty is not what you should wish on anyone.

A year ago I said I was okay, that I finally have my life on track. Thing is, there is no track. There is no way, manual, to-do list you have to read in order to live your life right. There is no formula to being happy. There are just snippets, air-pockets, of emotion you go through as you try to navigate. There is a goal, but there are too many ways to get to that goal, and it hurts your chances more when you can’t see what that goal is, or where it is.

Sometimes it seems enough to just craze for the company of another person. Any person. Live ones, virtual, imaginary, they are all the same. It does not matter.  But sometimes, it would make you bleed just to have another person here, right next to you, listening. You so desperately want to be part of a conversation, you settle for yourself as a companion. It’s sad and humiliating at the same time. Not to mention, painful. Sometimes you’d think it would feel better if you just ripped your heart out. It would feel nicer, less hurtful. But other than performing emo surgery, there is no other way to let go of it but to ride it out. Or sleep.

And in your sleep, you know you’re not alone.

Just like right now.

I’m dreaming.

~ by denice on 9 March, 2008.