Her hair, her eyes, her lips. She ran through the crowds of people in the populated city, she ran through the crowds of people in the populated city in my head. She was my dream.
Her lips, red as blood, her eyes, urgent and dark, intense, her hair, flickering like a flame as the wind caught all through it, amazing.
She ran through my head, swirling around in my endless dream, screaming my name, shouting my name at the top of her lungs, not stopping until she found me.
She swirled around in my endless dream, yet she didn't seem like a dream, she seemed so real, so close, as if I could reach out to her and touch her, whisper her name and hear her reply.
But she would disappear if I opened my eyes, as quickly as a wisp of smoke.
To dream or not to dream?
I woke with a start, as I did every time, when the blissful dream turned into a miserable nightmare, when the whole world disappeared like fog and she was falling, falling to her death. And there was nothing I could do to save her.
I sat up in my bed and looked around my room, covering nearly every wall were pictures of her, whether they were painted or drawn they were of her, I rarely drew anything else.
The pictures made me feel as if she wasn't just a dream, and I liked that. I wanted to feel as if she was real, I never wanted to let her go.
I reluctantly crawled out of bed, tripping over the many pieces of paper that all contained a sketch of the dream. They weren't finished, hence they ended up on the floor. And I tripped over them every day, my face always ended up smashed against hers, so close, but so far away.
After making myself a sad excuse for a coffee I headed towards the shed that was my studio. After closing the door I sat down on the stool and stared the blank, empty canvas in front of me. I thought about trying to draw a better version of what I had drawn so many times. Her, running through my dream, hair blowing in the wind, mouth open wide as she screamed my name endlessly, not stopping until I replied, yet no matter how many times I did reply she would never hear.
This image I drew the most, it had the most significance, it was what most of the dream was made up of, it was the story.
Well, what I knew of the story.
To be continued...
