Coronaland

My dream –

I arrived at our point of rendezvous early, as usual, but I felt somehow that today would be different.

The last thing you wrote was, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ suggesting either an obligatory absence at the behest of another, or an intended one, necessitated by the personally perceived need for ‘space’. It is Saturday, which, to many, means weekend, together with its accustomed chores and responsibilities. The weekday flights of fancy might well be deprived of foray into the week’s end.

No worries. Though you are not here, despite and still, I proceed as if you were; not in your absence, as it were, but in the presence of your non-appearance.

Which brings to mind, in dream’s lucidity, the subject of time, and possession, and expectation, and disappointment.

We suffer because we desire permanence in those things that are impermanent, ever-changing. To liberate oneself from suffering, one must eliminate the craving for that which is temporary, elusive. Never get too attached to something that isn’t yours. If it’s not yours, your attraction to it should be in compliment to another. If it’s not yours, reach for it only in appreciation, never to grasp it. If it’s not yours, hold it only with open hands, open arms; do not cling to it. If it’s not yours, any attachment to it, however deep, will be but temporary. If it’s not yours to possess, it is not yours to set free, not yours to call back.

To begin with, you were never mine, nor I entirely yours. We knew this, of course, but readily cast such constraint aside, at least momentarily, here and there, ’til reminded of other realities. It is not that we failed to comprehend the concept, but that I, for one, almost in schizophrenic disassociation, separated the two realities so far from one another, that they would find no cause for conflict.

Of course, it will remain unsure ’til the boundary of our current context has been crossed into another. Is our relationship, if so deemed, quarantine-bound? I don’t do Disney, but maybe this is just Coronaland. Only time will tell.

All of that notwithstanding, given this our origination by which we are moodily bound, we race windily over the same plains, down the same valleys, at length meeting like some hyper-notion on otherwise incongruous ground. And with our daily trysts, however enduring, come all required of poets.