I

had a dream about you. I wish I could say it was pleasant. I wish it had been a reflection of the You that I left, but it was not. No, it was instead a vision of the You that I've blocked from my mind time and again, the You that invites me to touch, but will not let me grasp.

In my dream, we have plans, detailed enough to be called a date, but as is standard practice, you change them despite me. Our new plans include a party, and oh yeah, your friends will be joining us, too. This isn't what I had in mind at all, of course, and I am saturated with the usual disgust. I deserve a fight -- this isn't the first time you've let me down. Rather, like a fidgeting school boy held after class, I succumb with my usual "that's okay."

You are busy and fleeting as always, and I lose your trail before finding out the whens and wheres. Lucky this is a dream, or I wouldn't be able to will myself into your presence. I do just that, and manage to catch you (and company) in a parking lot. Inside the white plantation-style house we enter is an amorphous and erratic body of drunken guests clad in Mardi Gras style costume, complete with mixed drinks and foolish, devil-may-care grins. Naturally, you fit this group like a glove, are immediately welcomed into the mesh. I am not able to hang on to your coat-tails for long, and we become separated. Now here I am, alone in a band of laughing fiends I've never laid eyes on, suckered and alienated. I hate that this is familiar.

As I walk outdoors, I decide that this "party" is more than a party. It is now more reminiscent of a carnival or a festival, with stations of fancy and fun scattered about the grounds. In the distance, a race is taking place between unusual, brilliantly-colored, home-made vehicles, piloted all by freaks of the same grade that stole you from my reach. It has been raining, and now I find that I am plodding over saturated, sponge-like ground. After wandering a bit, I come upon something entirely dream-like in its peculiarity: a jazz bassist accompanies a pianist, here on the wet ground, overlooking a large pit of mud. Perched on the ground around the pit is a group of listeners more casually dressed than their frolicking counterparts. The musicians are famous -- Robert Johnsons or Stevie Wonders or Scott Joplins -- and I am humbled to be in their presence. Foolishly driven, I decide to cross the pit, and suffer the obvious consequence. Everyone chuckles and feels sorry for me as I claw my way out of the mud, my once black suit now two-toned. I manage to take my earthen seat beside the bassist, who is grinning at me, makes an derogatory but friendly remark about my filthy state, and I relish the ensuing melodies.

And there lies our conclusion: you have moved beyond me, comfortable in your aimless celebration, and I sit ridiculed, surrounded by an unwelcome audience, comforted only by the sort of introverted interests that separated us in the first place. I went to sleep in arms with serenity, woke up tethered to a painful reminder. The thought of an Us was a string around my finger, a badge of complicity and security, a sunny halo of a sign that read, "this one is taken." In no uncertain terms, my dream reminded me of the reality: mine is a fan's admiration, and I must wait outside with the rest of your entourage.