The One I Was Looking For

In my dreams, I saw the one I was looking for.

When I entered the land of slumber, I found myself in a room of sophisticated, sleek modernism and antiquated décor, all, amazingly managing to be minimalist.

Each wall was white, in the room of minimal furniture. There was an unmade bed in one corner of the room, with entirely black and white sheets. Right next to it was a mahogany bookshelf, stacked from top to bottom with books – hardcover, paperback, fiction, non-fiction, and though I didn’t recognize all of the spines and titles, but I felt as if I knew a great many of them. I had no doubt that the true owner of these books had quite thoroughly internalised most of the content.

Directly opposite this first bookshelf was another bookshelf. This one was full of notebooks and the topmost part of the shelf was dedicated to just pens. This particular shelf was not yet full, and from it, I felt a sense of incompleteness, and the desire – no, rather an urgency – to attend to this problem. Not even I understood this feeling entirely. But perhaps my subconscious knew what it was about all along.

Aside from that, there were just about two more things in the room: a large, black and white downy sofa and a large wooden desk and chair on which multiple notebooks and novels were set in artistic disarray, as well as a cup of pens, pencils, erasers, highlighters and the like. Just looking at the chair, I wanted to be there, sitting in it, picking up one of the pens, opening up a beautiful notebook and…

There was a computer I hadn’t previously noticed among the notebooks, which was, incidentally, also a notebook. It had a purple, sleek case and a logo I didn’t recognize.

Even in my dream-state, I was contemplating going up to open the computer, laying my hands upon the keyboard, familiarizing myself with its touch, its feel, spreading my fingers to reach each of the keys, tapping out the letters of the alphabet I was so familiar with, without thinking, just to see what I produced.

I was jolted from my daydreaming within my dream by the one I was looking for. When she entered, I felt her presence. She was wearing a long, black T-shirt on top of purple leggings, with high top black-and-white trainers. Her hair was in dreadlocks, tied back from her face with a band. The locks were small and mostly black, but there were obvious strands of bright purple within the large mass of hair.

She wore glasses and no make-up, and in her hands were a notebook and a novel, with a book-bag hanging from one shoulder. Sighing, she walked up to her desk and placed the books on it. Moving to her notebook shelf, she searched a while for something in particular. She found it. Extracting a brown, spiral notebook from her middle shelf as well as a pen from her top shelf, she made her way to her bed and curled up on it.

Then, quite calmly, she began to write. I doubted I had ever seen anyone look so comfortable and passionate at the same time. The right hand with the pen flew over the pages, frantically scratching in a fancy but legible script. When the hand could take it no more, she switched hands and the left continued the right’s work. I don’t know how long it went on and lost count of the number of pages I’d seen turned, but the intense look of concentration on her face suggested that she was oblivious to the passage of time and could keep going for a long while yet.

Then there was a ringing sound.

From her book bag, she extracted a phone and put it to her hear. I couldn’t decipher what was going on at the other end, but a few seconds later, she said, “Fifteen seconds?” and then “Oh!” in surprise, as her door opened and in walked a tall boy with ebony skin, carrying two take-out boxes in one hand, while the other was just taking his phone from his ear.

“Hello,” he greeted with a smile.

“Oh my goodness. You need to stop doing this to me!” she exclaimed.

“Don’t be fraudulent, my dear. You know you love me barging in at random moments into your room. And besides, you’ll forgive me once you’re done eating.”

Her eyes brightened. “Is that Chinese?” she asked hopefully.

“Of course.”

She set her pen down, closed her notebook and smiled, genuinely happy. I could see that even if she wasn’t yet living her ultimate dream, she was at least getting there. That was all I needed to know. That was all wanted. She was the one I was looking for, and with the certainty of an intelligent fool who believed whole-heartedly in the power of dreams, I knew that one day, I’d find her.


2 thoughts on “The One I Was Looking For

  1. From reading your blog for all my WordPress life I gather this is you? If so your mind is beautiful. Most of us suffer from a deficiency of love for ourselves. Celebrating yourself is an awesome superpower to have.

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