I Sometimes Dream
Originally written and published in Dutch. English version I’ve translated myself.
I sometimes dream of cashmere, my longest legs, gracious swans, gallant men, erudite acquaintances and saffron as a staple. I sometimes dream of orange and pink and all orange and pink in-between as we fly past clouds, on our way to Vienna or New York. I sometimes dream of slick shirts and polished heels. I sometimes dream of velvet, mahogany, and marble. I sometimes dream of custom-made tiles and no kitchen but cuisine. I sometimes dream of chess, golf, horses — an undiscovered triumph waiting to be played.
I sometimes dream of simple and of water. Chilled bottles between rows of apples, tomatoes, and fromage. I sometimes dream of olive oil and its fields. I sometimes dream they find their origin amidst Andalusia, but if I wasn’t told, I sometimes dream of the plains nearby and their fertility without rain. I sometimes dream of green tea and its promise of longevity. I sometimes merely dream this given and dream of the opposite. I sometimes dream of cut flowers and tulips blooming. I sometimes dream of looser hairs and a hand rummaging through, looking for wounds near healing. I sometimes dream of my mother and her resting eyes locking mine for two seconds. I sometimes dream they’re twenty and I’d feel loved for twenty years to come.
I sometimes dream of dewdrops on grass and sometimes on roofs. I sometimes dream of the stars and find them everywhere. I sometimes dream of sorrow and hurt, caught by the controllable folds of words. I sometimes dream of a night with whom I used to be — I would worship her without disdain. I sometimes dream of today, how the fabric of the sheets falls around my legs, and how I dream of a giggle crowing me awake. I sometimes dream of almonds, lost train tickets, and people who seem to clean their windows on the same day. I sometimes dream of fulfilment, growth, and vigour. I sometimes dream of doom and of people walking out their doors in different manners.
I sometimes dream I feel, move, and shiver. I sometimes dream of dreams and stories, fires and flies. I sometimes dream of smells, fresh and generous, floral and sensual. I sometimes dream of white and I sometimes dream of black and what they have in common. I sometimes dream of light and I sometimes dream of dark and how they always seem to be two steps ahead. I sometimes dream of Tunisia, Tokyo, Turin or Tibet. I sometimes dream of Cape Town, Copenhagen, Kyoto or Kos. I sometimes dream of Sweden, Zaire, Zakynthos or Sunflower Village. I sometimes dream of all unbeknowst to me and pelt them with pens — voice, I tell them, where you come from, where you stand, and where you are headed — comfort me with answers to questions I will never be able to ask.
Aerin
