An overindulgence in red wine, white wine, Fat Tire and Cuba Libres led to a strange dream last night.
She and I laid in bed wasting a day with only each other's company. I was in a foreign place but felt at home. The tourist bus outside the window was filled with souls whose journey I could not understand.
I was a traveler now.
Comfortable with the uncertainty of daily life, I could no longer appreciate the guided tours and itineraries of a tourist.
Her image was at once, a melange of women's faces I know and yet an enigma.
Beautiful. Unknown but familiar. It was as if Monet had tried to paint a portrait of my future wife, not knowing who she would be but making his best guess through the strokes of his paint brush and the colors on his palette.
The feelings from the dream collided with my morning like a hot cup of coffee spilling on my lap.
I was tired -- as I am most mornings -- but also in a state of severe melancholy. Not depression by any means, but melancholy.
The type of melancholy that Albrecht Durer expressed in his allegorical engraving "Melancolia I" -- not showing a mood of depression but rather of inspiration waiting to strike.
I didn't long for inspiration as much as I longed to meet this person. To literally meet the woman of my dreams.
Until then I'll just have to....
Enjoy the ride,
Damm
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