Horizontal Dreams … {testimonial prose}

So the girl with horizontal dreams sat on a cold kitchen stool, looking out of the window at the wide expanse of  lively flora and fauna that seemed to mock her with its vivacity. She sat there, one missed call away from depression, one chipped fragment of her soul away from death. Is it what contentment feels like? She looked down at the white gold band around her frail left finger and felt nothing. Not even nostalgia, not longing, not the teary-eyed happiness she felt on her wedding day looking up at the stoic cross hanging on the brick wall behind the altar as if still engaged in persuading her soul that she was still the owner of her fate. No regrets for discarding both families disapproval in an union deemed as “precocious” and unworthy of candid clerical accountability. Not a single sense of vulnerability regarding the signs and foreshadowings heaven weaved into her inside parts. The clock was ticking. From unwhole and numb, She consecutively became beautiful, confused, rebellious, married, ‘free’, and numb.

She sighed and rose wearily, studiously avoiding the taunting ticking of the clock as it betrayed her daily fear, 12:15am and he’s still not home.  This was a dangerous place to be in, this deep sense of failure and giving up for which apathy was too light of a descriptive word.  She ran her fingers over her dry messy braids, tendrils of hair sticking out in the back, and marveled in disbelief at the time when she dreamt to be his wife, two become one, until death do us part- and the church did say amen. She wandered through the comfortable desolation that was her family home, echoing with the many footfalls of a long-gone toddler. Her heart had ceased to bleed long ago. She had forced it to, for fear of her lover’s dismissals that only served to increase the pain rather than to alleviate it.

She had an endless inventory of things she could no longer say, what was the point? He would be back soon, take a quick cursory glance at her distressed face marked with valley-deep channels of her endless tears, and all he would do was shrug.  “If you don’t want to talk about it I’m not going to ask”.  She looked down at her dwindling frame and suddenly felt cold even in the perpetual 35-degree celsius heat. How does infatuation, and passion, and love and obsession, morph into flippant neglect, and uneasy comfort, and torturous nonchalance?

She had dreams, and although he never categorically forbade her from following them, she felt she had to stunt their trajectory, what was the point if she had neither his disapproval nor his praise? She used to yearn for everything that was him; a discarded handkerchief, a late night phone call, a smile; and so it didn’t matter that she let her God-given ambitions cool on the countertop like a stale apple pie. Thinking back, she couldn’t even remember why she turned down that opportunity at the International Institute of Arts to wander in thoughts. He wouldn’t have said no, he didn’t even have the right to, but she thought he was worthy and so she gave him a full ownership to her intimacy with her creator, her heart, her mind, her free will, her future, her purpose, her dreams.

And so her astronomical and horizontal dreams were put to rest. Her life stretched out in front of her in an endless sea of family functions, and traditional weddings and lonely nights in the cold tundra of their four- poster luxury bed. Her dreams for their life together died a thousand deaths at the first shrug of his shoulders. She slid into the icy bed sheets. 3:15am; he’s still not home.

If she was still His horizontal dreams…

[Remember to wisely live your life with purpose, on purpose]

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