spring jasmine

nearly a year ago, i had a dream that i have often thought of, but never written down. this dream was both nightmarish, and oracular, and it woke me up, feverish but subdued, at that really early morning time characterized by half-light. i dreamt that i was being shown a book that had pages made of leaves, green and glossy, bound by twine and twigs. in this book were photos of the most bittersweet, elusive, and fantastic memories - photos of he and i laying in his twin bed, near the heater that would spark, photos of my brother, photos of my mother and i when i was young and she was carrying me up the stairs, photos of me laying on my aunt's outstretched legs while grandpa fished for catfish. the oracle, or shaman showing me this book had a deep gravely voice, and i feel sure that it was grandpa. in the photos, above my shoulders were three small captures of light, like dust. but i was told that this was actually three evil spirits which i carry on my shoulders, and that are always present, even in the most simple and sublime of moments, moments like the first time you touched me, or moments like when you first brushed your hand on mine to hold it. and i could sit now and try to describe in some new way how much this dream upset me, but i can't. all i can say is that it did, in one of the most profound ways i have ever known. and though nightmares should elucidate and disappear when you wake up, and put on your shoes, and walk out to the street, this one never has. it feels as confusing in my mind's vision now as it did that morning i woke up, in that bed that wasn't mine and i saw the white sheets with small seaglass blue dots, and the light beginning to tear through the bamboo shades on the window, my hair tangled, my eyes still with sleep in them.