It’s been a while I wrote a story. Sorry, there’s no excuse for it, I can’t even blame writers block.

Oh well, this story is about a girl I met recently. She’s the type of girl I see in my vivid dreams. The type I remember her lavender perfume wafting into my nose in the dream, then I wake up and inhale it deeply. She’s also the kind of girl that belongs in a dream, but you see yourself talking to her and pinching yourself to wake up.

Alas, here I was, there she was, talking about life with me; the cruel hand life had played her. Cursed to love men who lust after her, and to shun men who truly want her. It’s an infinity paradox when you realize that those who want her probably don’t know why they want her. Then there’s me.

Me? Do I want her? Honestly?? I want her more in my dreams. I like looking at her dazzling eyes when I have thought myself to sleep, I like the chocolate brown of her skin and how I can see the scars of a childhood infection, it must be chickenpox blemishing her perfection. I like seeing all these things in my dream. The sound of her voice in the corners of my mind like the crickets making out in my room, I anticipate to hear it everyday and I’m mildly delighted when I remember something is getting some while I get a boner. I like the way I sleep talk conversations with her and wake up feeling happy. I like that she makes my peepee wake up in the morning even before I’ve had my first prayer.

As you can see, I like her better in my dreams. I’m neither driven by lust nor desire to her earthly manifestations. I stare at her in awe because she was probably sent to earth to tempt me. God forbid I should fall so easily for what I’ve dreamed off.

As she talks and smiles, revealing more details that I probably missed in the dream, I take a mental note to inculcate them into the dream. I still look for her quirks, like the way she grunts after a hearty laugh, that she has slight traces of OCD which compels her to clean her room every day.

As I will myself to imagine her features in my head, I realize that I’ve never even used her face for impious purposes. This thought even makes me flaccid.

Oh well, I guess we all must have something we mustn’t spoil even in thoughts and dreams. This is my story, this is the dream I take to sleep. Welcome to my inner sanctum, a world ruled neither by caprices nor base desires.

As I slept yester night, I thought of calling her but I banished such unwholesome thoughts before they became actionable; I looked forward to what crazy things she will make me imagine; she didn’t disappoint. As a young man who dreams dreams, I must thank her for allowing me fulfill this greater commission, dreaming.

Today I’ll go out with a sprite in my steps knowing that her memories are in my dreams secure. I’ll also harbor premonitions if she is my spirit wife who has stopped me from finding true love.

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