Not so long ago, I dreamt of a man who lives in a little green circle. It was the kind of dream that led to fingers sliding into the warm folds of my wet cunt.
But this dream, this oh-so-delicious dream, lingered far longer than it ought. And this dream that should have been a wisp, easily dispersed by the light of day, quickly developed into something else. It became a thread of arteries and veins centred around an embryo of a heartbeat that thud-thudded into life.
This dream, it grew, feeding off the stories I told it. Stories of nipples tugged in the dark, of dripping cunts and orgasms. The more I fed it, the larger it got until those embryo beats turned into fully-fledged boom-boom boom-booms.
Over time, this dream became a tangible entity and then one day it spoke to me. It demanded a name. This stumped me, I’d never had a need to name a dream before, so I pondered awhile. I tossed syllables around on my tongue to see which felt best. ‘Lust’ perhaps but that felt too harsh for something that I’d nurtured inside of me. I knew deep down that there was only one name, one that fitted the dream so perfectly. But I kept that syllable on my tongue, lips sealed, not wanting to christen this thing that should never have existed.
The dream kept asking, ‘What name do you give me?’ but I kept quiet, telling it to leave me in peace for dreams shouldn’t have names. Days melted into nights and nights melted into days and every day and every night the same question was asked and the same response was given.
After a while, I felt too guilty in its presence and began to busy myself with tasks. I scolded and reprimanded the dream and told it that if it insisted on questioning me I would stop feeding it. I kept the tales of finger fucks and vibrators to myself and the dream grew hungry. It cried then it got angry and then it cried some more. I stood strong despite the cracks appearing in my heart. Eventually, the dream grew weak and so I cradled it in my arms. Its eyes filled with sorrow as it asked me a final time, ‘What’s my name?’
I wanted to tell the dream that I’d known its name all along but I couldn’t speak, not even now when I knew that death hovered nearby. I kissed the dream on its forehead and held it close. I let it listen to the hollow sounds of my empty heart whilst its own beat grew slower and slower and slower until finally, it stopped.
And at that moment I realised what I’d done. I shook its lifeless form and told it that I’m sorry, that dreams should have names. I whispered that its name was ‘Love’ but the dream remained still.
As my tears fell, the saltwater washed away the dream, my oh-so-delicious dream that shouldn’t have had a name and I vowed that I would never dream again.
