Ruth-Ann works in a local bakery/coffee house/cafe. You know the type – cool atmosphere, expensive, but tasty food. The kind of place you are happy to have in your city and want to tell everyone about, but you don’t want everyone to know it’s there.
Ruth-Ann is the kind of person that makes this type of local establishment work. She was friendly with everyone who came through the door and seemed to be a genuinely happy person.
Her curly blond hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail and her eyes were disconcertingly bright blue. Ruth-Ann’s story is beautifully cryptic. Where do you think the dream begins and ends? Let me know in the comments. Enjoy.
It would be dreams. It started about a year ago. I was laying in bed w/ my 1/3 Indian boyfriend at the time in a building that had been used as a venue for bands w/ no place to play. I thought I woke up to a group of boys down stairs and I walked out to see what they were talking about – all the doors were open and the wind rushed through and the morning was bright blue and nobody was outside.
I woke up again in my bed w/ my 1/3 Indian boyfriend. No wind. No blue.
During the Broken Social Scene Jig at the free Summer Concert Series, I whispered in his ear, “I can’t be w/ you” and I walked through the mass of people and watched the rest of the concert w/ a tree. I don’t know why I did it.
Its about dreams tho, really, dreams that aren’t dreams.
It goes like this:
I wake up multiple times and have multiple conversations.
I met a boy at a bike shop. He had red hair longer than mine and everyone elses. We rode down the canyon and I took my hands off the bars in the dark and cracked my head open on a rock. 25 stitches. University Hospital. Watched bats together at 3 am because we were locked out of my apartment. Layed on the parking lot. He touched my hand. Gauze around my skull. Pineapple cake mornings after drunk roommate finally got home at dawn.
Fast forward redhead bomb to blast the **** out of my life. My existence since that crash is loving him and trying to remember who I am and what is a dream.
We talk about coffee, why I don’t have the flavor he wants, and the I wake, it wasn’t a real conversation. Dream. I get confused. Wake up for real. He punches a hole in my wall.
Not a dream. Wind.
My head is loud loud loud in the morning. Vivid as high definition TV. And more real than (real) life.
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