dream deep

Days like today should be spent entirely in bed with someone you love, with the curtains drawn and the sun spilling in over the sheets. We will lie low and read D.H. Lawrence aloud like children, and question and argue his views on unlovedness; on his whole theory of that clean, perfect, unreal state that usurps love as we know it.  Such delightful maleness he paints in city tom-cat, and such wile and wit and subservience and equanimity. Such is woman, that belle sauvage. We will try to make it past morning without thinking of noon- and noon will not matter for evening- and evening will not mind because the night is hers. Beautiful, beautiful, this is beautiful. We will do away with the mindless metaphors and say what we mean, because we were not meant for accostance or made-up words, only truth, and truth beyond truth, and that which is the gradial par to truth, the opposite, which balances the whole delightful manner of being.

Clean, dry days, you understand? Crackly, like that cereal you used to like so much. Mornings where you suddenly, gradually find that it is a pleasure to exist, that you find a sort of benign joy in waiting for the bus, the tip of a page in a book, the rustle of white paper, the perfect sharpness of a pencil, the soft coming-to-terms of a person. I don’t know if they make them like this or if we twist them into the drudgery that we are used to, but I say, this is loving. 
The rain falls from a perfect grey sky, and I whisper to you stories I made up as a child about dragons that dance the rain down to the earth. This is perfection, this belief in dragons, this sound the rain makes as it falls on the roof outside the window. And the rain will fall and fall and fall, taking hindsight for tomorrow's potential perfection. Tomorrow you and I will get up, put on our clothes and paddle out to the city in a coracle we will make for ourselves out of canvas and plates and knives and the serving-spoons we'll find in the drawers. It will be glorious, and we will be ridiculously happy.