She listened to the dream speak. In its voice she heard every person’s laughter, every child’s scream, every unfaithful lover’s lie. She heard the sorrow of every parent losing a child, and the bitterness of every brother or sister losing a sibling. She listened to all of the emotions she would vocalize, as well as the ones she couldn’t, or wouldn’t. . .
Looking into the dream’s eyes she saw every first crushes broken heart, every first love’s disappointment, every first-born’s wonderment. She saw the motivation on the face of a boy told he’s not good enough, and the nervousness of a boy afraid of rejection. She saw every crushed hope, every broken dream of a son, a daughter, a father, mother, friend, lover, who only wanted more for. . . someone. And in those eyes she saw all the men she would love and every inner-child she would hate. Every person that would love her but she couldn’t love back. She saw the people she loved and wondered if they loved her. . .
Inhaling her dreams breath she smelled the waste of a person alone, the desperation of a woman falling apart but trying to hold herself together. She smelled the sweetness of a teenage boy’s whisper, and the tartness of that whispers impure intentions. She smelled the odor of two bodies entangled as she let her body be taken by that whisper. And she smelled alcohol. . .
She tasted her dreams tongue and in that the flavor of tears lost in a public bathroom in some city somewhere and the drugs taken to forget those tears. She tasted the sweat falling off the faces, arms, legs of children and their parents working to survive. She tasted the blood lost in a hospital room for being human. Of blood lost on the street for being a different shade of skin. Of blood lost on the battlefield for being young. Of blood lost in the bedroom for grasping at innocence. . .
She reached out, and touching her dreams hand felt the goose bumps of a nightmare or fantasy realized. She felt the panic and guilt of a wrong-doing, and the tightened fist of a person done wrong. She felt every bruised, broken, bleeding wrist of a person who gave up on nothing but themselves. She felt the sting of a missed opportunity, and of a missed friend. She felt herself falling into this moment of self-actualization, self-awareness, self-realization, self. . . self. . . selflessness.
She had heard, seen, smelled, tasted and felt everything she was, is, and could become. Anyone could become. And she wondered, “Is this all there is?”