This was a dream, and like all dreams its content may not be at all factual, only a representation of what might be. I picked up the book with a sense of odd familiarity, like it was a lost old friend. I read through the first few lines and realized that I was in love with that person, not just then but all this while. I knew him for everything that he is and everything that he could be. I knew him by heart.
The world of the flea market vanished. There was only me and the book that contained the secret of my heart's desire, floating in a vacuum, isolated from anything that could sway me from what I knew I had to do. I had to read the book; I had to know whether I was in it.
Perhaps, in truth I already knew what I would find. But like every course of tragedy, the poison must be drank, the chest must be stabbed, and so the book must be read. It was a beautiful book written about a beautiful person, someone that I grew to adore and fell in love with like I acquired the taste for bitter chocolate, delightfully strange and sinfully intoxicating. But this man thinks he is incapable of loving anyone and that includes me.
I know in his heart he is so full of love to share but my knowledge has no voice that could reach his senses. This man didn't know what to do with my love. I can't blame him. I wouldn't know what to do with his anyway. But I figure that it should be something that could be worked on later. What matters is that we have what we've always wanted. A love that affirms everything we believe in and acknowledges everything we are as individuals.
I knew that this was only a dream and that I should always take everything I taste with a pinch of salt. But I have always believed in my strong sense of intuition, and I knew that the purpose of this dream was to wake me up.
The book told me everything that I already know and more than I would want to find out. It's silly when I think of it now that I could no longer remember what it is that bothered me so much that I'm prepared to give it up. Perhaps it's not really the details but the mere truth that I am not a part of his life. I read funny anecdotes by a few good friends, love letters by a string of ex-lovers, stories that made up his life as it was, but nothing at all coming from me. It's as if in his book, I don't exist.
I had a hard time getting out of bed, but I did. I don't want to be in love with him anymore. I don't want to be in love with anyone that refuses to allow himself to fall for me. But the question is, was it by choice that of all the people in this world, it was him that I am in love with? If it was, then it would be so easy to choose for all the dreaming to end. He certainly made it so easy to choose not to even dream of the idea me.
