My dreams always come naked.
With skin that does not yet exist, but I feel it at the tips of my fingers. With a heart that beats inside me before it is born outside.
I want them.
I want them with the hunger of lips that have not touched. With the tremor of a body that has not yet been loved.
I have always wanted to speed up time.
I dreamed of a shortcut. I dreamed today would already be tomorrow. I dreamed the future would be now.
A few days ago I came across a story.
A boy named Peter. Smiling, kind, but forever impatient. He received a magical ball with a thread – his life. And every time he did not like the “here,” he pulled the golden thread a little to go to the “there.” He skipped hours, then years, then whole decades. Until one day he discovered he was already old, and his life had slipped through his fingers like water. He missed living. He missed loving. He missed being.
And then I caught myself horrified: I am Peter.
I too wanted to tear apart today. To skip the night. To wake up already “there” – where everything is fulfilled.
Where I am the woman who has written, carried, raised her world to its feet.
Where my dream is not a secret, but a fact.
I imagined that thread – golden, soft, dangerous.
If I pull it, tomorrow will become today. If I pull it hard, the book will be waiting for me on the shelf. But with it would vanish all the moments in which I carried it in my womb – the pain, the arousal, the shame of wanting it so fiercely.
Our dreams are not products.
They are lovers. They want time, skin to skin. They want you to wait for them with trembling hands, to nurse them with sleeplessness, to caress them with words until you burn. They want to happen slowly – with resistance, with tears, with moans.
Every dream of mine to “skip ahead” is a pull of the thread.
And I do not want to hurry them.
I do not want to pull the thread.
I want to weave it – word by word, cell by cell. To let it throb inside me, to hurt me, to fill me.
And when one day the dream appears alive before my eyes, I will touch it like skin I have known even before I kissed it.
And I will know: I did not skip it.
I lived it.
To the end.