There is a window that exists between my dreamscapes and the perceived realities of my mind. Here, the vivid tales of wonder that exist mesh with the certainty of the way things are and I experience both the delight of flight and the disappointment of being stuck on the ground. The transition needs to be complete, and I often find myself wishing to remain kissing the clouds instead of rolling off my bed on to the floor beside me.
On one side of the window, I can hear you tapping on the glass, your voice melodically calling for me. As I sleep I can feel you near, and I move to touch you. The sun within me burns in its brightest hue as I search for your flesh, but on the other side of the window I realize that space is empty. I call out your name, and on one side of the window I can hear your reply while on the other I can only hear the echo of my own pleading. On one side of the window I see the awe in your eyes as the mountains illuminate in an early morning lavender, while on the other I watch the gift alone. On one side of the window I can feel your grip tighten on my hand and your head fall to my shoulder in delight, on the other side my hand remains empty and I can only feel your presence in my heart.
If given a choice between which side of the window to remain I would always choose the side that you are on. I would break the glass and tear away the walls that surround it just to get to you. I would ask the gods to banish any wall between us. I would see the fear of truth turned to dust before our eyes, and watch as the divine winds of love swept our landscape clean.
For now, I have little choice. Soon, your tapping will silenced and your voice will fade. My feet will hit the floor and my day of reality will begin. As the darkness in my space gives way to the morning sun I will again whisper your name, awaiting the certain silence that will follow. It is the way of a warrior accustomed to his solitude who is also seeking its end. I will surrender to the moments when I am on this side of the window while hoping for those moments when I can peer through the window and feel your hand again.
Forlorn can be the mind who finds such great love in dreams that he wishes for them in his waking moments. Weakened can be the heart beating to find slumber as its way of dancing in the light of love. Yet strong is the warrior who can live his life to see his dreams born on the other side of the window, who can strive for summits that exist on the other side of the wall. Her voice is so worth it. The promise of his touch will see him through. The desire of a soul reborn to find its other half will not allow obstacles of the mind to stand in its way. He sees that now, and hope she sees it too.