At night, the radiator in my room turns into a jet engine. Or, rather, it seems to dream about being one As I lie awake listening to it howl and sputter, I am reminded of distant dreams I can barely recall, of other worlds I know in my sleep, but have never truly encountered.
I ponder the magic of the night, that fantastic tension which drags my soul naked across landscapes foreign and familiar. How often in dreams have I been able to truly be with the one I love, who is as distant a creature as a phantom! Strange that I should long to wake, knowing he will fade from my arms when I arise.
Yet in my magical nocturne jet, I am able to fly to his warm embrace once more, to caress his pale cheek and ruffle his dark hair. For the one I love knows well the flight path the radiator conjures, and he finds me without fail, regardless of the mode or method painting our environs.
So why do I flee from sleep, from his emerald eyes and supple lips? Is it because I recognize the futility of flight, my heart a pair of wax-melted Icarine wings? Or is it simply that I am unable to bear another morning’s loss of so great a passion?
In the end, the radiator begins its descent, fwapping angstily in its shell like a weakened baby bird, and I am greeted by nothing but a room filled to the ceiling with memories and useless possessions. Perhaps someday I will truly find peace, but never in this darkened museum of futility.
Never at six in the morning.
-DTA
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