"When you stop dreaming, you stop living" (MS Forbes)
And that's how She often comes to me in my dreams. Audrey Tatu, French film star, "the wonderful Amelie Poulin". Not really her personally, actually. But it reminds me of her, that lovely clear-eyed jewel that always torments me when the day inevitably fades, wears out. And it's like I don't know who she really is, or I don't remember her at all. At least I didn't dare to remember that first night when she "snuck up" right next to me. Constantly "chicking" at me, curious and restless. As well as the wobbly, trembling hours with Her, next to Her. (Essentially, she is not there.) Therefore, I can't, and frankly, I wouldn't want to mentally shake her off. A night goes by without her, and I feel gloomy, dull and hollow. I'm waiting for her, calling her image. Strict and cute appearance. They sit down. Upright, petite, firm, toned, thin, rounded in places where the view is most gratefully finished. Finely feminine, once my shining pale-faced noblewoman. All masterfully trimmed with soft silk. Brilliantly special. Somehow transparent, perfect. Because of all that, it is also externally irresistible. ("Well, I like this girl", my dear, self-sacrificing late mother admitted to me the other day, with a caring smile of support!) And every morning I shudder that She will not return to my "waking dreams" the following night. Because it pleases in a paramasochistic way her analysis, the exposure of my personality, my own (and her) life. And I almost can't believe that She was actually an inseparable part of him for a short while. And that he knows me better than I see myself. "Why were you so impatient"? - cuts me both with a sentence and a look. "Whenever selfish, superficial, maybe scared"? "From me"? - tests me directly and decisively. "Were you afraid of the environment, of the rush of feelings, of our youth that suddenly failed, of your own unpreparedness for the sudden happiness"? She and I both know the answers are yes. And of course, from her words, from her questions, which at the same time represented real answers, as if I glimpsed through a fog, I realized who she actually was. And what she meant to me, and what she still had to give me. And it's not. Since, it seems, I didn't give her enough space, I didn't give her a chance! Immeasurably more and longer, incomparably more magical, more magical, all that had to take place, to last. And don't stop, don't stop! That I was more open, more relaxed, more serious, better, more mature. And it's not that I didn't adore her, maybe even disproportionately "stifled" her, and Vjera, the "cake lady" from Bokeška Street in Podgorica. A wonderful decoration and the center of my milieu dedicated exclusively to her during those months. That gift of heaven and earth, that mutually growing, bringing closer the rhythm of the heart that I let loose lightly. Which we both lost forever, in the home of the promising May sun of soothing absolute joy. Extinguished in our senseless turmoil. And for her, that originally natural, discreet, gentle and fragrant flower, it was apparently not enough for me to hug, care for, caress, care for. And he was, she was right! Since then I was not able to truly understand Her, the unique, magnificent sage, with my soul and head, to "seize" her whole, both in silence and in movement - then I have never been and will never be able to do anything else, neither before nor after. And so it turned out. God's punishment or human reality? No one was even close to her in completeness, in depth. Was I really able - even though I wanted so fervently! - to surrender to her completely during that period? And during these "subsequent" dreamy nights with her without sleep - while she appeared to me, floating in the semi-darkness of my abode, with the moonlight shining through or not, it doesn't matter - or she was (was) real, at least in my mind - it crossed my mind is in front of your eyes all your life. I imagine that She is interested in whether I am happy, healthy, filled with strength and creative cheerfulness - especially, whether I would do again, that is, again miss what I have allowed myself to do once or more times. All my lines were: no! It is not remorse, but a belated assessment of wrong choices, of following the line of least resistance, of the absence of boldness and maturity. In fact, I secretly wished for a different character and temperament of myself, and even a different environment and orientation. I realize that it would not depend decisively on me again. But at least in that non-existent second "drink", I probably would have influenced my own destiny more - with greater combativeness, persistence, unselfishness. Courage, desire. With significantly less conformity, i.e. surrendering to the elements. And the deceptive time that it, apparently, solves some key things on its own. Of course, they were not completely untangled in the past years. Yes, time can improve us, lift us up - the risk is certainly intermediate, but at least mentally profitable - but only if we "ride" it with our own and firmness. So how far do we go. And so She, my "other self", eternal and unbreakable love, illuminated me in my sleep at night - and continues to illuminate - with her personality and imagined and irreplaceable "dialogue", both the contours and the core of my story. However, through those honorable "meetings" of ours, I seem to have concluded - at least now, much too late - that even She has not yet settled her accounts with herself. It seemed to me that he doesn't even consider himself well-rounded, satisfied. (And I wouldn't judge anyone's happiness.) It sounded painful and sad to me, from both of us - in this, in these nights of confessions and summaries, summaries, and even a kind of psychoanalysis - two words, two concepts, two essences - today, now unquestionably unchangeable, irreversible. Time and failures. Accompanied by her and my disharmony. But I thank her endlessly for making it possible for me, for wholeheartedly helping me to bring to the surface those stubborn spots, shortcomings and wanderings that are characteristic of us. Detours. With that awareness, with that knowledge - almost useless, superfluous - it's easier to tread the rest of the path. And something can be passed on to descendants. No, I did not wake up from the described dream with her and by her side. Although I don't usually sleep. And I'm not going to sleep. And at the same time, I cry out not to stop dreaming, to keep visiting me in the dark, in the corner of my room. In the clarity of our voices that echo within us. Which we both listen to and on that occasion we can only hear each other. It is a privilege, a privilege that I will not give up to anyone, that I will entrust - that I guard jealously. Beautiful, not easy, but rich, instructive and meaningful. Which almost regularly enters the scene well after dusk.
"Our most real life is when we are daydreaming" (HD Toro). Elem, I said, I am visited by She, magnificent in the thickening darkness, especially on the eve of the morning, before the darkness and She with it starts moving away elusively, raising the path of the sky. Inspired poetic, romantic, disappearing, disappearing. With my hope and prayers, imagining that he will "appear" again. And she teases me from time to time, whether I still "heart" her generously, or (we) what is happening right now, is indicated only by the shadow of the former promising destructive love. With all my strength in that period, so subtle, sensitive and sensitive, porcelain fragile and spiritually powerful, refined - with all my ferocity on the surface, I wholeheartedly urged her, at least in places, to never leave me anywhere? To become one forever, remaining ourselves, rebellious, young and mysterious. Or was it just an unfulfilled desolate dream, vulnerable like this one that now, almost out of nothing, with love, at the same time with effort and inner pain, I unsparingly pluck(o), squeeze(o)? I didn't have a valid answer, neither then nor today. I just have a hunch that we have changed and "come together" again, and communicated to each other as if in a kind of smoke. Even in the form of multiple flashes, in a daze. That's why we intertwine so emotionally luxuriously, in dreams, in bits of fragmented reason. Precisely in classes when no one sees or hears us. It should not, and should not, reach us with our senses. That it does not spoil this fairy tale for us and that it does not deprive us of a common phantasmagoric pulsating life even before the physical end of our torn and turbulent, grainy crazy - and mutually, one after the other, calling destiny. "The human soul is immortal,/ we are a spark in the mortal void,/ we are a beacon engulfed in darkness" (PP Njegoš, Luča mikrokosma).
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