Dreams of: iii

The night before this dream, which is a relatively small dream, I went to a hall of mirrors set up they have built for the Melbourne festival with Lily. I had a really fantastic time, and I felt an intense relief when I saw her, which I was glad to have as I had been feeling tense the whole day because of various things.

We walked through the hall of mirrors and it was fun interacting with other people and finding our way out. Strange experience, not being able to differentiate reality from representation, losing yourself in a reflection, watching your hand pass through what you thought was a solid expectation of a wall. I suppose that could be seen as a theme running through my life recently, the flouting of expectations, the most obvious of these is that I am genuinely happy when I believed I could not be again. I have Lily to thank for this, and God for allowing us to meet.

I am can only repay this debt by giving the most love I am capable of creating.

After the hall of mirrors, we went to Fifty-five, a nice bar that has a real comfy vibe and usually has a resident djing playing anything from hip-hop to soul/funk and some rnb in between. We talked for a long time, though time seems to go so fast with her. Opening up is intimacy and that is probably why I felt so numb to girls I have dated in the past, I was attracted to them, enjoy their company and thought they were fantastic people but perhaps I never fully trusted them as I trust Lily. It is almost funny that when hypothesizing telling them of my past I was impressed by them rejecting me or finding it horrible. As Groucho says, ” I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.” The present’s obligation to the past is much looser than trauma would have you believe.

We got an uber back to Parkdale and said goodbye affectionately.

I dreamed that I woke up. And perhaps I did, though only in a semi-conscious state. I felt warmth beside me and I thought I was still on the date. I reached out into nothingness touched lips with my index finger though I couldn’t tell whether they were mine or Lily’s. It occurred to me that I couldn’t actually remember whether I was Conor or Lily. I knew it was strange not to know exactly who you are, but decided quickly that out of my two options either was perfectly fine as long as I was one and was with the other, slipped back into a deep dreamless sleep, and by chance woke up as Conor.

Perhaps I also have God to thank for this dream, that has answered a question I wrote in my notepad as I took the train up to Flinders.
“What should the relation to self-love and love be?”
To which I can now answer (cryptically, at best); it is not knowing your lips from your lover’s in a kiss.

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