Sometimes, in the space between sleeping and waking, thoughts, poetry, and dialogue float through my head as vivid as if I had experienced it. In some cases, I did, though fiction gives me license to sound a lot cooler than I did. Or perhaps it’s two characters talking who have no physicality in a scene that has no description–they just float out there in a void of contextlessness.
So I wake and I jot. And I have an entire notepad filled with this word confetti. I don’t know what to do with it, or if I even could do something with it. So, confetti…
In a Coffee Shop~
“Sometimes, I dream about people I hate.” She lit a cigarette.
“Why would you waste your time?” He leaned his elbows on the table. “I mean, if you hate them.”
For a moment she stared at the burning ember of her cigarette before saying, “Most people don’t really understand hate.” She met his eyes; hers were cold and deep and sad. “You can’t really hate someone until you’ve loved them. Once you love them, they become a part of your soul.”
“So, you just wind up hating yourself?” He asked.
“And haven’t you been there? Who else other than someone you love is worth drinking that poison and holding it inside? Who else but someone you would have given your life to protect?” She took a drag of her cigarette.
“That’s twisted.” He leaned back and scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Did I ever claim to be perfect?” She sipped her coffee. “Or, for that matter, entirely sane?” She stopped speaking to consider this. “I’m just trying to make it through until Lights Out. To hell with ‘in one piece.’ That stopped being a stipulation some time ago.”