The Desert Of Her Dreams

There are dreams buried under these rocks and stones. The desert is dry, bare, desolate. But there was life here once, I can feel it. Of the many landscapes I come across, this must be one of the most desolate I have ever seen, but I do not feel lost or despondent. There could be life here again, I am sure of it.

All is not lost.

I can make flowers bloom again here. I can turn this dull, dusty landscape green again. The parched, cracked riverbed could one day feel the healing waters flow, filling it cracks and making this world breathe again.

I saw the two of them out there on the street, talking. She stood so close to him as though the mere presence of him somehow gave her sustenance. She held his hand in both of hers, a silent plea on her lips.

In so many of my long years, I have seen scenes like this. I should have carried on down that street, gone about my own business. But the look on her face as she walked away, leaving him watching behind her, somehow made me pause.

I turned and followed her, knowing I shouldn’t, glancing back to see him enter the cafe and the other woman waiting there for him.

The crying woman though walked off down the street. I’d heard him call her Allie.

I followed her home.

She did not see me, but then of course they never do, unless I want them to.

Eventually, worn out with crying, I felt her fall asleep.

Not long after, I found my way into her dreams and found this parched landscape, this desert devoid of all hope. It was an empty future, stretching out in front of Allie as though she was lost and didn’t know which way to go.

I set off across the desert, trusting my instinct, going deeper into her mind, her memories, until I found what I was looking for.

There, a long, long way from the desert of her dreams, I found a small oasis of hope. It was a place where the water still ran clean and pure, while the songbirds sat silently in the trees. I could feel the beasts of her nightmares watching me as I bent down to the cool waters of that oasis with my cupped hands.

Then, standing over her as she slept, I let that cool water of hope, of long lost dreams, and the possibilities to come, drip between my fingers. Letting it wash her face clean of the tears of the day just gone.

Back at that oasis, I heard the songbirds begin to sing again.


Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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