I had a dream about reading the dictionary. Each word popped out of the page and displayed itself. I suddenly feel a desire to read the words and meanings of every opportunity in the English language. Then go further and dive into the linguistic playground of Spanish, French and Norwegian. Letting the delicate phrases wrap themselves around my throat and rub against my vocal chords. It was another dream about writing a book. I am building the courage to share authenticity, rawness on the page that doesn’t try for censorship. The dictionary is a character that provides tools to describe, encouraging me to push harder, to bridge the gap between my turbulent mind and the open arms of the pages. I have wanted to write a book my whole life. Wrestling with the ideas and how I would bleed them out create connective tissue and make it digestible.
I feel like there is a field of stories around my body aching to be written. Just under my skin, poking heads of times and places, filling in the spaces with imagination, I am writing all the time. The key is not to share for a while, to take the time to write the parts that I have protected my bare bones without allowing other eyes to suck them in. Just for me for now. Running the stories out my hands and being gentle enough to accept whatever comes out. An exercise of non-judgment and disconnect when necessary, that these things shaped me, carved my soul out and I can watch it flicker on the page.
Dreams are gifts. I can play this one back, charming and childlike, my floating dictionary. Trickling words over my head as I sleep.