There’s a soft rumble that accompanies my waking moments.
It’s gentle and reassuring, and long before I reach consciousness, it’s a welcome interruption to my sleep. So I lazily return from my dreamtime wanderings, hand reaching out to stroke the soft, silky fur of the creature upon my chest.
He purrs more.
There’s no meowing. No desperate attempts to be fed. He simply comes and lies on me, snuggles down on top of me and purrs.
Waking up is welcome in these moments.
It’s a necessity, to drag me from the life that I’ve created in my mind. Where my dreams become too real and I can’t remember what reality is. Did I have that conversation about the tea? Was it last year that I had that trip to Japan?
Did I kiss that person?
Did they kiss me back?
My life is boring. It’s monotonous and there are days, often, when I’m overwhelmed by the thought of being me, that I dream of running away. Of unburdening myself with the concept of being this person. If I lived in another country, with people who didn’t know me, would my burden be lessened?
Would I be free?
My father has taught me several things in this world, but the one lesson that has been hard wired into my brain is that if I choose to say something, I can not ever take it back. It’s not a thing that can be erased, and I live in constant fear of being that person, the person, who says those words.
I’m scared of burning bridges before I’ve lit the match.
So I dream of being fearless. Of doing the things I would do if I were not encased in these chains that I’ve made for myself. If there were no expectations, no pressures, no burdens.
I might be an actor, walking out on Torvald for treating me a child. Or Hamlet, bemoaning the loss of my father as I watch my mother prostitute herself to my uncle. I could be Eliza Doolittle or Eliza Schuyler.
Or I’d own my own tea house, brewing exactly the right tea for each customer. It would only take one look at them to know what tea that needed and that’s what they would get. There’d be this sense of peace and satisfaction and I’d be the cause of it.
Instead of the disappointment.
I’d write music, music that stirred tears and made people tremble at the sound of it. A power that they had never experienced, a sense they’d never considered.
Or perhaps I’d paint pictures that were beautiful, that made people cry at the simple pleasure of it.
One day I might.
One day I hope…
Hope I might be that person.
But for now I am woken by the soft, gentle, rumble and life is good in that moment, and perhaps, that is all I need.
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