Updated: Jan 25, 2021
I saw her in a dream, through a field of colour. Flashes of a person. A thick, concealing haze. A hand, an eye, a lock of hair. Every glimpse is comforting and familiar. I try reaching out but she doesn't stay in one place for long enough to touch. My movements only cause the colours to disperse and meld into each other in endless kaleidoscopic swirls.
It feels like she's trying to reach out to me as well. Empty hands outstretched in a formless technicolour fog. Maybe she's a dreamer too. Maybe our souls are drifting past each other in the collective unconscious. They want to connect but can't reach past the noise. An infinitely small space between us, too great to bridge.
I keep groping in the void, hoping to hit up against something. I think she is too. We both crave an anchor point, a fixed perspective to start making sense of things. The shifting coloured fog breaths in vibrancy, gently fluctuating between dull and lively, drab and vital. No fixed points, everything moves in every direction at once and goes nowhere. I don't know where I exist within it, or if I even occupy a space. All I can do is keep reaching.
I feel the brush of her finger on mine. It's the briefest of brief moments, it can hardly be said to exist at all, but it feels like everything. I becomes we. We experience and exist through each other. We're on the inside looking out and on the outside looking in. We feel seen. We feel permitted to embody what we already are. We feel kind to ourselves. We ground ourselves in this point in space, in this point in time. The featureless fog takes on a definite, ordered quality. It feels as if it brought us here to experience this moment. We understand it is fleeting but we're grateful.
Her finger slips away. We crumble into dust until all that is left is me.
And I go back to floating alone.