It’s been raining the whole day, probably the first since summer and I guess this would start of one too many rainy days for this June. No more bipolar Manila weather (hot, sizzling, humid Manila summers), only gray, cold and misty rain.
This morning’s dream left me feeling giddy albeit a bit queer (it concerns one named Misha Collins) and mostly disappointed because it wasn’t real (disappointed groans). And we were both having a ball then. Dream fragments that remain with you as soon as you wipe Morphy’s sands away should be jotted down, especially if it was one of those that you wouldn’t want to wake up from. It’s hard to write about it now, I might overdramatize it or underplay it or exaggerate or ignore important parts. But no matter, this is a Misha Collins dream, a first in hopefully many interesting dreamscapes.
Apparently, there was a party being held in a place that looks like our dining room and there were a lot of guests. There were a lot of people but I certainly didn’t bother to look at their faces and there was loud dance pop tune playing with jerky guitar beats and just chatter, chatter. Out of nowhere came Misha walking across the room, with a drink in hand. He was grinning, a playful lop sided grin and I was immediately frozen, cheeks burning. Now there’s a gap between this part of the dream and the next thing I know, we were talking. We talked about the weather, global warming, my schooling, how my summer was and how was work for him, which I remembered he described enthusiastically as quite fulfilling and it never gets boring. We were laughing at something. Here’s a brief moment to describe M.C from what I’ve seen—he had stubbles on his chin, strong jawline, a wide smile with sensuous lips and sincere, bright blue eyes. He was neatly made with a cream colored blazer and a darker shirt underneath (dark blue? navy blue?). He ran his hands and across his dark hair, shifting his gaze from me then the room. By this time, he was putting his arms around my waist as we walked around the room.
Someone wanted to take pictures and he was ready to be the photographer. He was terribly engaging, his voice warm, amiable, loud enough to command everyone to gather around. Every time he just went closer to me, telling me something about his travels, funny people and a lot I don’t remember. M had grown more charming and golden to me all day and I was only wishful and happy for this time with him. Someone took a picture of us and he was all smiles. It was then I noticed the heavy footsteps and shuffling of my younger brother, trying to wake me up.
Somewhere in the Dreaming, a photograph of Misha Collins and me is lost. Unless it probably reached the hands of Lucien, tucking it safely away in the Photo Album of Pictures That Were Dreamt.
Good heavy rain coming down, slopping on the shingled roof of our house. It rained all day, spurting and drenching and I feel comfortably enclosed in the wetness and coldness. Sometimes, you’d think it was talking to you when you’re alone in your room, mostly when you’re buried in your thoughts and you become vaguely aware of the splattering, falling of itself, tinkling on the hard roof in a high tone.
The best part of the day was when I was whisked away by P. There’s a wonderful combination of a touch of seriousness and silliness in him, more so a while ago since we haven’t seen each other in days and the chemical magnetism was undeniable. A moment of pure exhilaration playing on the top floor of a roofless parking lot under the freezing rain was what we both needed. We were under a lot of stress this past few days. We missed being “us”. There’s always that sleepy, electric drowsiness when he holds me firmly against him and I feel quite sorry for all the distress I made him feel and our little fights.
I would love him like no other. We’re the same banana still at the end of the day.
Everything against my glass window is blurred and fluid in the watery dark.