I started dreaming dreams that I used to dream back when I used to dream, 30 years ago, when the translucent matter of my hybrid life went from white to gray to black, then void. But my reality is not the issue here and it will not be the subject of any present narrative, for my dreams have surpassed any psychiatrist’s pay grade. What I couldn’t remember from when I was young, the dreams that liquefied in front of my eyes as I woke(and woke I stayed daily until now, as I haven’t dreamt in three decades), a marvellous unexplainable thing, what I couldn’t remember was the fact I used to dream in novels.

A woman appeared in one dream that I experienced when I was 10, she was dancing with her hair and her hands, moving them like they were fog or smoke, like Papini’s Gog would make evanescent art out of a fire’s fumes. Her face reminded me of Mitoș Micleușanu’s cover from his book “Trepanoia”.


I followed her until the building blocks that formed the inner sanctum of my dream collapsed, a dream within a dream, as all the roads from Calvino’s Zobeide led to a brick wall, where I could only spray paint my love for her, Nadja, my novelled love, my 100th pages of pure bliss, superficial, why not?, length-wise and to the cross-reader’s eye, but with footnotes worthy of Proust’s “À la recherche du temps perdu”, her – a novel lost in the footnotes of a story mentioned hastily by Pierre Menard, lost in Bioy Casares’ “Russian Doll”, told by a vanishing hitchhiker to an eager ear, this woman’s the reason fairy tales turned wandering Prince Charmings into raving madmen, dragons decapitated, years gone by, age is a silly relentless number on a referee’s stopwatch, she’s the race that keeps on giving, hope, understanding, reason and bliss. She was Oedipa Mass, she was Madame Bovary, Nastasya Filippovna, the reason one would hop off reality’s train into this labyrinth of faces, times, histories and verbal galimatias.

I woke. I drank a cup of coffee and I went back to bed, hoping to catch a glimpse of her again.

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