kissing dreams good-night

It is in these dark hours of solitude that the words flow, not unlike the constant sound of water dancing downward from the fountains I read about adorning the piazzas of Italy and the courtyards of Spain. Despite aching muscles and the exhaustion of my body, my spirit soars in these late hours, inspiration the confidante begging me to share my secrets.

My dreams grow in the night, taking me on journeys through foreign lands, through gardens and ancient ruins, along a pilgrimage that I long to walk upon in my own life some day. I can see the olive groves, smell the blood oranges, taste the rich pastries and bitter, thick coffee. In the European countryside, I can feel the sweet tickling of grass beneath bare feet and hear the bells of a million cathedrals. In my dreams, I can live this life in all its beauty and magnificence.

But the dreams can only carry me so far these nights. These dreams are merely that, a dream and not my reality. And so inevitably, I am pulled back to the awareness of my body, my mind, and the encompassing need for sleep. I must close the pages, but gingerly, tenderly, as if the very pages are the dreams of my soul. The exquisite delicacy of words makes me hungry for adventure, travel, journeys to unknown places. This hunger cannot be sated, not yet. And so for now, for tonight, I will leave my dreams with a momentary farewell kiss and quiet the words of passion that ache to be written.