everything about the dream; the longings one has; the weight that is left behind, the residue of the night that returns in its tenacity day after each returning day.

When the sun rises in its urgency to spread sunshine and laughter it is forgotten how the night was drenched in tears of wanting of another world…

‘love is giving something you don’t have to someone who doesn’t want it’, and did Jacques Lacan know what he was doing to the dreamer when he wrote this line …  when he set the stage for collision with a dream?

Did he see my lake.

I am sitting near its waters and they recede; the ebb and flow of desires is a strange one that creates ripples I cannot fathom nor control. I am at the mercy of what the dream will hiccup out; how could you have surrendered your dream for mine?

fool! heart wretched heart wretched dream cursed dreamer how you fool yourself for an iota a second a moment a breadth of ecstasy…

‘dreams are an interpretation of the unconscious desires’

                … Lacan my dear Lacan what desires are those that lie huddled against the small window in my heart that won’t open that won’t close that won’t open that won’t close..

my desires are not in need of interpretation … they are naked and  raw … emotions that scream shriek shout cry and then whimper their poor selves to a lullaby I sing hush dreamer hush you have another night …

the claustrophobia of a dream that wakes to a sun shining outside … remember Sabina? do you now? you wanted your dream to exorcise itself through Sabina through you through Sabina through you… and you were afraid.

                                            of what Lacan?

Ah!

Love. you were afraid of love. That would create you in an incarnation and blow you hither and thither to the winds and oceans and rivers and trees and you reached my lake and here I am smiling at you… cynically so… you have no idea like him what love is… he alludes to love and is scared to satiate love.. love is the annihilation of myself for you when I say I would die for you I mean I have seen death a million times in my dreams and I know it like the softness of your touch upon my skin… I am a visage a dream a need you are conscious of but not willing to die for and it is only in your death that you  meet your Mashooq… death is a dream.

from the near and the far they came to see how her lake had receded … the waters had backed away … coiled in their sadness the trees bowed to see her sit there night after night waiting for him to return the smaller animals of her forest huddled near her feet and the larger ones stood at a distance …  in awe of her immaculate ability to annihilate herself for love … and all ages that would come after this one; the trees would tell her story … of how she had sat at his feet the entire night and then at dawn she had stood and walked away … and when she had walked the earth had shifted … grass grew as she walked and the trees … the forest was created in that one night … she walked into it … and the lake grew beside her waiting … arm in arm … in the entirety of her wait … her dream grows thicker each night …

everything returns to the lake to the dream to the dreamer to me

…

Dee is from Lahore, Pakistan. Loves dark nights and old trees.