Sunday, March 12

Urinating

It was a winding, well-lit corridor. The walls were white, columns that reached up and converged above. Small rooms of activity branched off at the side. She and I were walking side-by-side but she spun off as we talked, as we cracked jokes, she laughed her laugh, that most perfect sound. Her hand on my neck, she spun with me at the centre, then brought her arms around my neck. We laughed and I rested my jaw on her wrists. We walked onwards in that embrace.
During the night the room had cooled considerably, on account of me turning off the radiators and opening the windows. Personally I find it preferable to wake up in the cold; in such conditions the warmth of the bed is a greater sanctuary. I hoisted up the covers. 08:42. If I got up to urinate then I would surely lose the dream, but I sensed the dream was already lost.
Crisp blue morning light; a promising day beyond. I looked forward to coffee downstairs.
I lay there a moment, recalling the dream, recalling details and times that I have failed to retain as I put it down here, thirty-six hours later. What details had been lost? Was there something more that I have since forgotten, something that caused me to wake up in such a positive mood, such a happy, enthusiastic mood? But then, I lay and thought of the dream, feeling good beneath the covers. I gripped my sex because I had to urinate and could not go back to sleep without doing so. On the floor was a ball of tissue I had wrapped around an orgasm. The orgasm had leaked through. I took it to the toilet and urinated over the orgasm from last night.
I did not mention it earlier but as I left the bed, I drew the cover back over where my sleepy bulk had lain, retaining as much heat as I could so that upon my return, relieved, I found the same degree of comfort I had left. Only a true master would extend their consideration to such measures.
Yet already the dream was beginning to fade. I awoke properly an hour-and-a-half later, and took my morning coffee — one of three — on the decking of my parents’ house, struggling to remember the dream around an olympic mat performance of smoke ribbons. It was so simple, so innocent, but it had buoyed my spirits and I was feeling happy, even in the shady confusion of blue skies as they blew and flew clouds across the sun.
But now it is all estranged. It has finally left me, the effect. The above is recalled foggily at best. Writing it down like that revives no such joy; it was another man, another me. As the phantom of a dream pleasures me so, I would surely be smitten by the real thing.

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