Dreamstruck

I had a particularly dark day yesterday, the result of a snippet of a dream that lingered in my mind on awaking.

It was a vision of Pierre, dressed in simple t-shirt and jeans, hands shoved into his pockets as he leaned toward me in the manner of affection that he practiced as an adolescent. His hair was full and tousled, as though he just woken and emerged from his room and there was a gentle aura around his head. He stood there as I approached and he said, with such a simple sincere tone that I knew it was truly him, "I made a mistake, Papa. Can I come back now?"

I don't know if I weep when I dream, but I am unable to hold back the tears as I write this, now a whole day after the dream. Yesterday I could not even tease out the details of it; knowing only that it made me deeply saddened merely paralyzed me. Had I not been obliged to work at the restaurant, I would likely have stayed in bed the whole day. As it was I had a migraine and but for the miracle of my medicine I would not have been able to work.

I do not know how many more months and or years of this that I will have to manage, but it is particularly unsettling that my conscious demeanor can be so drastically upset by an unconscious thought. In this manner I am not able to control my grief, and find I am only responding to it, which as yesterday proved, can be unhealthy, both metnally as well as physically.

Really my best hope is to here write about these feelings, purging them and yet leaving a trace to follow for those who would someday wish to know. It's not much but it's the best I can do for now.