We don’t need much to start dreaming.
One small detail is enough, a word, a blink of an eye.
A tiny spark igniting series of novels written in the past.
I imagine things we never had time to fulfill.
As if somebody is looking, who knows I’m lying to myself.
I fantasize whatever I wish.
Daydreaming.
Is it because I miss him?
That time we never spent.
Memories.
Sometimes rain of flashbacks.
Pouring.
No way out for rising water levels.
Flood of thoughts.
Rushing through my head, flickering, unconnected.
Sporadically they look like irrelevant
segments of my life, little particles.
They seem to be time clashing with each other.
Sharp pieces of a broken mirror.
Reflections of another me.
Every bit on its own is part of a puzzle that makes a collage
of scents, sounds, touches, giving me my former life.
How to catch that vision and force it to be part of my being.
When the world is a burden.
When longing.
To have a solace in it.
Maybe I’m creating illusions for myself, dreaming,
imagining, hoping to form his character.
To reverse the irreversible.
Today.
I make memories for my kids,
making myself alive through their plays.
Again, breathing a past life.
He is alive.
I am alive.
