The power of dreams is they make explicit what are usually only vaguely felt or unconscious currents; but they don’t do so by turning them into ordinary thought. They stay elusive and multifaceted. Writing can do this too.

You lay next to me, pillows on the floor, I gaze at the curve of your waist, your legs disappearing into the distance. We’re both exhausted from days and days of walking and walking. Thirsty, not only for water. I touch your shoulder. The closer I get to you, the larger you appear, the more I know of you, the more there is to know, the more the unknowability of you bursts forth, the ultimate mysteriousness of you. Yet it’s in that very unbridgeable gap that love is possible. Love isn’t possessing the other, it’s in relation to the fundamentally unknowable other, an unknowability which includes ourselves. We cannot possess ourselves, any more than we can possess someone else. But we can be present, intensely, with each other, at every moment, beyond all moments.

Who are you? You sleep in the sky, and I dream of you, and suddenly you laugh and I roll towards you and remember.

I breathe in the rain, the dirt on the sidewalks and pavement, the rumble in the depths of the hollow streets. New York is always awake, yet it’s a still, quiet place, at the same time; with all the cacophony. I can hear the silence in the noise, the noise is silence itself. Everything is always already stopped, the motion itself, already.

I wrote this to you:

…there are two ways to think… either running on and on and on… Or… stopping to go deeper and deeper into it, to let yourself seep into it, permeate it and let it permeate you, until you’re thoroughly in it and it is in you, you are it, and then you let it breathe and live through you until suddenly it comes bursting forth as brilliant light.

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