What Dreams Are Made Of
I have enough blessings to make a stairway to heaven. Bright red, yellow, pink, orange and purple, blue, indigo, gold, and one of the shiniest parts of my life would be my friends. I don’t know what it is, but I dream about my school friends the most.
(Actually, I think I do know why. At least I think I know why because I spent two years studying psychology – which sounds more impressive than it actually was. So my dreams are made of wispy pale nostalgia, that smells really good, like fog, cold, dusty, and crisp, but it leaves an ache inside because it goes away too soon and you’re left wanting more. I miss my friends, or more accurately, I miss those days. Not enough to go back to the start, but maybe visit a few choice moments: the waterpark slides, chalk fights, locking one another in the school bathrooms, acting out Cinderella at Maddy’s birthday party, swinging in the evening outside Fatima’s apartments in Askari. There are strains of guilt, dark spots that camouflage into the background when you turn to look at them but which you can always tell are there because they follow you around, inches from your blind spot.
Then there is yearning. You dream of things you want. It’s called wish fulfillment, and as you grow up, your dreams and wants are disguised. One because you start wanting questionable/immoral stuff that you’d rather not to come to terms with, and two because your superego just gets to censor more. But often, I dream of things I want to get done: apologizing to someone I hurt, or yelling at someone who has hurt me, telling a roommate they need to clean up the kitchen, meeting people who are far away and hugging them.
The color of yearning: a soft cream, you want to scoop it up on your finger and lick it off. Or the burnt oranges, browns, yellows and reds of a pile of papery autumn leaves that you want to dive into. The shimmering silver lining of clouds when the moon glows full and bright behind them.
I want to see my school friends, and ask them how they are, if they’re happy. Do they remember the lost shuttlecocks, and the white PT shoes, the navy sweaters we tied around our waists and the plastic-covered chart papers outside KG classrooms? Do they ever think about calling, or writing, do they at least see me in their dreams every now and then?
The color of my dreams: watery pastels, mauve, lavender, baby pink and powder blue.)
I may not talk to my friends that frequently, and I may live thousands of miles away, and it is hard to make connections when you don’t share anything anymore. But the love I have for them is like the plaster of Paris we made a volcano out of. It’s set and firm, and you cannot undo it. I miss them, and I know I’ll see them when I go back home. Even if it is just for a couple of hours after tedious planning and scheduling…
Remember the hours we would spend in school? Go over to someone’s house on a Friday soon after 12 pm (sometime straight from school!) and the six hours would cartwheel away, and too soon our parents would be there to pick us up.
Dreams are made of memories, rearranged. And they are reminders, nudging you to write an email, or send a Facebook message, or make a promise to yourself.