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SycamoreCircle

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SycamoreCircle

Last night I had a dream that left its bitter truth on me after I woke. I dreamt that I was out one night with this guy I used to loosely know---Chris. Chris was a friend of a guy I lived with in college. He was very smart and had a lot going for himself, but he was also jealous and devious. He later became a severe stoner. I remember bumping into him in the campus library and he was completely zombified. He was with another guy and Chris related to me that they were soon to leave to follow Phish for their next tour. I thought that sounded ridiculous and my judgment of him tightened.

 

In the dream, we're hanging out at a bar or restaurant. He's with a girl he's met. We're outside a public bathroom and I'm organizing myself and momentarily put my stash(very soft green buds growing on long stems) down for a moment. When I look up, he and the girl are in the bathroom, behind a locked wooden door, and my weed is gone.

 

I go through the routine of checking myself and my surroundings but in the back of my mind is the fear that the person I've been hanging with all night, laughing with, has stolen my property. A rage mounts in me, I bust the bathroom door open. Some kind of fluid jets out of Chris' penis. I grab his collar and raise my fist and ask, "where is my weed?!"

 

Flustered, red-faced, spewing, he stammers "I got it, I'll give it to you." I release him and exit the bathroom. He emerges and the woman behind him. With the strange hues that selectively paint the interior of dreams, appears the detail of a rolling suitcase belonging to Chris. He feebly opens a side pocket of the case which produces nothing. My anger grows. More threats are issued. I imagine bloodying his face. I physically force him into the bag, "YOU GIVE ME MY WEED!!!" It only seems to deactivate his life pulse, any electric signal to obligation, to reply. His body and energy become indebted to some far off ether. This drives me mercilessly into physical violence. I beat him and beat him at the same time tearing into the suitcase. At one point, I find the closest thing to what I'm looking for---what appears to be long stem roses, their blossoms clipped, everything bound in rubber bands and wrapped in an envelope of clear plastic. My hot-blooded crusade to hammer him into one corporeal truth reaches its climax when the thread of doubt frayed and torn from something larger paddles under the microscopic focus of my mind. He has not taken it!

 

The fabric of the dream separates and dissolves into liquid reality and a deep unknown known.

 

When we are confronted with the suspicion of dying love, let it be taken to the bottom of the ocean. Don't investigate it. Don't interrogate it. Don't put it together. Don't fight it into submission. It was what it was because it owned mystery. Let mystery die with it. Don't invest in P.I.'s or VAR's. Don't look over cell phone records. Don't take her computer to someone and ask them to get into her Facebook account.

 

Sycamore, don't read her e-mails. Don't call her into discussions. Don't bike over to the other guy's apartment. Don't look at his social media. Don't remember the lies she told. Don't remember her pulling away from you.

 

Your addiction is yours alone. Let it leave you.

 

The fight only points up that it was not love. It was addiction. It fulfilled some satisfaction of self-image. Let it leave.

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