What Could Have Been

It is amazing to realize now how much my mind really wonders. I keep my characters in my head most of the time. At the time they scream to come out and the pen hits the paper is as if they are actually creating themselves. The scenerios in stories are not necessarly real. Some parts of the surroudings might be taken from some experiences and some by the fragments of pure imagination.
This is what is so great about letting a character live in your mind. The possibilities are endless.
Don't read into it, what my life is or is not...it is ultimately my belief. I may have many lives. Writing is a great way to recreate yourself all the time.

Here is a story of the idea of love, the memory of passion between two strangers to eachother that never really gave eachother a chance to really know one another. Two people so right for each other in a world so incredibly wrong about love and the salvation of one of them. This stories are about faded memories that could and could have not happened. This is a whole different world.



I woke up late last night dreaming of what could have been…

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You laid there next to me watching and caressing me while I stared at the ceiling.

I wonder if this is how it looks from up there. I’ve never been in a plane before. I wonder if the grains of Monterrey attached above could represent people. Is this how it all looks to me now? This moment.

I guess they do. Everyone seemed so insignificant in my life while I was there with you.
Yet I never got the opportunity to see the world from up there on our way somewhere nice; away from everything. It’s always been one perspective with us hasn’t it? Only one way of experiencing things.

My head felt light, wine, Lucy, screams, my body moving. We held each other, I could hear your heartbeat close to mine. I felt as though we danced. I remember how I was trying to memorize your scent, touch, even when you looked mad. The room and everything in it.

You got up to get me some water; big plastic glass. I remember wondering if we would ever own our own place. Maybe you would let me pick up after you. Your naked body moved slowly close to me again, I wondered if I could pick out some of your clothes and how I was going to place them on your side of the closet.

The phone rings.

It’s your friend from work. I have to be quiet. I look around and nothing in the room is mine, not even you. I don’t belong. I have to go back to the real world. I take my jacket, it’s cold outside. It was so warm in here with you, it’s a shame I always have to leave.

It’s always been one perspective with us hasn’t it?
Only one way of experiencing things.

I wake.

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My husband calls for breakfast. He says we got the house. I think of clothes, and closets to hang our lives in.

The water runs down; the warmth washes me down. It’s time to start the day. I know at night the dreams will come again.
Maybe they’ll show me again what could have been, and then I’ll think of you.