Spoiler! :
From time to time, I stumble across him. His appearance varies; sometimes his hair is a different shade, his height a few inches taller or shorter, his skin slightly more tanned, but it doesn't matter. I always know it's him. He's the nomad of my dreams, appearing when I least expect him to but when I need him most.
I first met him a few years ago. Since then, I've become much more acquainted with him. I like to muse that he's a real person caught in my mind and not just my imagination at work, a wanderer unable to continue on to something other than this world. Whether or not my notions are true, I'll never be able to tell for certain. Perhaps it's better off that way.
A few nights ago, he visited me. Prior to falling asleep, I'd had a particularly troublesome day. My mind was riddled with worries and cares about unimportant things that I'd convinced myself mattered, and I'd cried myself to sleep, overwhelmed. Curled up on my bed, I'd slowly blended into my dream world.
He was waiting for me.
He's a peculiar sort of person. I've always had a distinct feeling that I'm the only one he truly identifies and is truly comfortable with. No matter what's happened in my life before seeing him, I'm able to abandon it the moment his weathered hand slips into mine. That night, he'd decided to take me to a carnival, and he led me away through the foggy twilight air. Surrounded by lilting festival music and the amicable glowing of large yellow lightbulbs, we wandered from booth to booth. I pretended to be interested in the objects within, but in reality I was fixated on the warmth of his hand. I glanced up periodically, stealing a quick look at his eyes. Their color never stays the same. That night, they were a warm caramel color with flecks of blue swirling in their aqueous depths.
I could feel their presence whenever he looked at me. A pleasant warmth would radiate over me, and I invariably closed my eyes blisfully, simultaneously perceptive of his pleased smile.
The worst thing about knowing him is that our midnight jaunts must always end. Just as night fades, so must the inhabitants of my night-time dreams.
Sometime around the middle of that night, I felt the thought of morning invade my mind, and we both shuddered, he and I, standing motionlessly as the frigid thoughts of morning chilled our hearts. Then, as if we were one person, we walked out of the carnival and into a lush field flecked with icy dew, staring at the ground. A single clammy tear slipped down my cheek. His hand squeezed mine when he saw it, and I looked at him, trying to smile through the sadness but unable to muster anything but anguish. He picked me up then, tucking me into his arms effortlessly, and proceeded to walk across the field. My head slouched gloomily on his shoulder, my short brown hair protruding wildly from my head.
In the midst of the woods bordering the field, we discovered an abandoned house. Ramshackle pieces of wood criss-crossed in an aimless fashion, fastened together in bizarre ways and somehow roughly forming the shape of a decaying cottage. With me still wrapped in his arms, he walked up the front path and onto the porch. The door swung open instantly before us and revealed the inside of the house. I forgot my sorrow for a moment and stared, mesmerized, at the interior.
A cheerful fire blazed in a modest fireplace at one end of the room. In front of the fire, there was a stack of thick blankets and two pillows. He set me down, and my bare, damp feet touched the warm smoothness of a newly swept wooden floor. Juxtaposed with the shoddy exterior of the house, the inside was the exact opposite: cozy and dry. He went to the corner, removing his coat; I walked to the fireplace and crumpled wearily in front, placing my wet feet near the flames so they would dry.
I have a strange way of understanding him. While I rarely hear his voice, I can hear his thoughts quite easily. They drift in and out of my mind, spoken smoothly and softly. If anyone other than him said the things he says, I would find them strange, but somehow, when uttered by him, they make perfect sense in my mind.
As I, exhausted and worn out, slumped in front of the fire, I heard him padding over behind me.
He took two of the blankets from the pile and spread them onto the floor, casting sideways glances at me as he did so. When they were spread on the floor, he turned to get another. I crawled onto the blanket, fell on to my side, closed my eyes and felt the drowsy heat of the fire beaming onto my face. The soft, glancing touch of fabric brushed my arms as he covered me with another blanket, casting it into the air and holding the edges so that it wafted down over my body.
Seconds later, I felt him moving behind me. A contented smile crept onto my face as he wrapped me in his arms.
"It's so easy to hold you," he thought as I listened. "It's just like the wind, so soft." He traced a ruddy finger along my cheekbone and snuggled closer.
Being close to him is wonderful. His touches are confident but not invasive, devoid of any traces of nervousness. His hands, strong and gentle but not in the least delicate, withdraw every musty thought of the world from me. As they wander over me, not for any particular reason but to touch me, to reassure him that I'm still there, I move with them, wanting to be close.
Gone were the anticipations of morning and daylight as we were together, feeling the warmth of the fire and the airy comfort of each other's breath.
But, at long last, morning came. The walls of the house melted away like the wax of a candle that has burned for far too long, dripping down slowly and continuously. My hands clung to his arms, but the daylight sucked me away from him with incontrovertible power. The morning was undeniable. As I left him behind, I thought I heard his voice, calling for me, speaking instead of thinking, wanting me to return.
I awoke with tears trickling from my eyes, my alarm clock beeping fanatically on my desk. I hit it angrily with my palm, silencing it, and attempted to fill my arms with blankets, trying to replace him, wanting to inhale his scent but unable to find any traces of it on the sheets. My cold hands ached emptily, desiring him.
I know I'll come across him again. Perhaps it will even happen tonight. Until then, he's simply an inhabitant of my mind, wandering from place to place, waiting for me. Whenever I feel a mellow, balmy breeze, I think of him, because he's just like it. He possesses the same mysticality, an identical magic, to what the wind wields.
He's just like the wind, so soft.
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